One Bird's Choice

by Iain Reid

  The thin strips of red construction paper at the bottom of the shredder catch my eye.

  “What other things?” I ask.

  “Just documents and such. And there may have been some old valentines in there too.”

  “You’re shredding our old valentines?”

  “No, no. Just yours. There weren’t very many of them. You can always pick them out and tape them back together if you really want to. I didn’t put them in the fire.”

  The idea of taping those old paper hearts back together is deeply depressing, but for a moment I consider it. I pick out a few of the red strips. My name’s spelled incorrectly on one of them, and it’s signed by someone named Sam. I’m not a hundred percent certain, but I think Sam was the boy in my grade three class who was constantly being reprimanded for blowing his nose directly into the palm of his hand and rubbing the mucusy harvest onto his pants.

  “No, no, it doesn’t matter. Here, let me give you a hand.”

  Dad flips the switch back on and the shredder growls. I pick up the box, handing him one paper at a time. I watch him carefully feed each one through the sharp teeth of the machine. Our little assembly line continues to work in silence.

  I’ve been noticing that Dad’s arms and back are looking stronger, and the way he sits now, leaning in over the shredder, holding the paper out in front of him, accentuates his improved physique. Since cutting back on teaching he’s had time to start going to the gym. I’ve never said anything but decide, now that we’re alone, I should pass along some encouragement. It can’t be easy going to the gym regularly, sitting in a cold car, driving through all that snow. I can’t be bothered to do it and I’m not in my sixties. I’m not even thirty.

  “You know, Dad, you’re starting to look stronger; I can tell you’ve been lifting weights,” I shout over the buzz.

  He flicks off the machine. “I’ve been going for almost a year now. You know,” he says, “you should think about coming with me. You could use a little exercise.”

  It’s true. I could. My physical condition is nothing to be proud of. Like my disposition, it’s taken a turn for the worse. While living in Toronto I walked every day, sometimes late at night. There are no streetlights here. Unlike me, the sun has better places to be these days, and it leaves each afternoon in a hurry. In Toronto they remove the snow from the sidewalks. Here the fields hoard the snow greedily and give it up only when the temperatures warm. Outside there’s snow as far as the eye can see. I feel like I’m in the middle of an ocean — a white, frozen, boundless ocean.

  It’s the time of year when the charms of warm, meaty suppers and rocking chairs outweigh any benefits of working up a sweat or getting your heart rate going. Instead of going to the gym I’ve been meeting the roaring woodstove every morning and each night after supper; it’s become pathological.

  My last trip to the gym, a month or so prior, was with Mom. She convinced me that her yoga class would open up a whole new world to me. She claimed it would not only improve my limited flexibility and help me sleep better but also do wonders for my mood. She thought I seemed a little down in the dumps. When I insisted I’d never done yoga and had no intention of starting, she told me not to worry, that most of the women in the class were beginners too.

  A week later I was removing my socks and unrolling a borrowed yoga mat in front of four retired women, three of whom were grandmothers. My mat was tattered and smelled of sweat. Everyone else seemed to have a new, clean mat. Mom’s yoga for beginners didn’t make me more nimble or elastic. Instead, from the first stretch I felt wooden and tense. After a brief warm-up we started with the basics. We were instructed to keep our legs straight, reach down, and touch our toes. I bent down as far as I could with unhinged knees, yet my toes remained far away. The backs of my legs ached. Our eyes were supposed to be closed, but I cheated, peering around the room with one eye. Everyone else was bent at the waist effortlessly, the tips of their fingers curled under their toes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. That was the first five minutes of class. It was a ninety-minute class.

  In his quest for better health, Dad has turned to a rowing machine and free weights. But with my yoga experience still fresh in mind, I’m reluctant to rush back to the gym. The time Dad works out isn’t encouraging either. At least yoga class was at night. When Dad departs for the gym, I’m usually sound asleep under a dune of blankets.

  “Well,” I say, grabbing my elbow and stretching it across my chest, “I’d really like to, Dad, really, but I’m kinda busy the next few weeks with —”

  “You’re not busy,” Dad’s quick to say. “I was just checking the calendar this morning.”

  He’s played his trump card. The calendar Dad refers to is a massive whiteboard mounted on the kitchen wall that displays a one-month period. At the end of each month the calendar is erased and the next month is created. Fresh-calendar day is always a big deal around the farm. The calendar is Dad’s baby. He looks after it, keeps it clean. I notice him checking in on it several times a day, sometimes just standing a few feet away, sipping tea, looking at it affectionately. It’s colour-coordinated, so all of Dad’s engagements are marked in blue and Mom’s schedule is in red. One evening I even found Mom adding to the calendar retroactively.

  “That was last week; it doesn’t need to go up there now,” I pointed out.

  “It’s best just to put it up there.” Her entry was a lunch date with three friends.

  One night at supper, several weeks after I moved back home Dad presented me with my own dry-erase marker at an unofficial ceremony. “It’s green,” he said. “You’re going to be green.”

  From then on I was constantly being reminded to add my plans, no matter how trivial, to the calendar. On the few occasions I actually had plans and remembered to mark them down, I forgot about my colour and would scribble my engagements in black. This would cause a flurry of confusion, and I would inevitably find my blunder corrected, switched to the proper green in Dad’s hand.

  So when Dad suggested I accompany him to the gym because I didn’t have any plans, he wasn’t assuming or guessing. He was relying on cold, hard fact. If the calendar says I’m free, I’m free.

  “Do you think I can get in without a membership though?” I ask desperately. “I wouldn’t want to ruffle any feathers.”

  “I’ve been saving up my guest passes. I could probably get you in for a year.”

  “Right,” I say. “I guess it’s a date then.”

  “I’ll knock on your door tomorrow morning. But get your stuff ready tonight. I like to get there early.”

  And with that, Dad flips on the shredder, ending any further discussion. I retreat to my desk, slipping my shawl back onto my shoulders and wondering how I’ve just agreed to spend tomorrow morning doing sit-ups with Dad.

  True to his word, Dad rips me from a deep sleep with a series of tenacious knocks on my door.

  “You awake in there, bud? Time to go.”

  “Yup, just reading in here,” I lie, squinting hatefully at the glowing display on my clock radio — 7:02 a.m. “I’ll be right down.”

  Why didn’t I go to bed earlier? I almost step on the empty beer glass and popcorn bowl sitting by my bed. Sometime around 1 a.m. I licked my finger and ran it around the bottom of the bowl and drained the last sip of beer. Now the bowl and glass get to stay in my warm room while I trudge down the hall to the bathroom. I feel betrayed.

  Once downstairs, the scramble for my neglected gym clothes begins. I hadn’t prepared the night before as instructed. As I frantically search for a clean shirt in the laundry basket by the door, I jump when I notice Mom sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown. I thought she was still sleeping. Her computer is on in front of her.

  “What the hell’s on your eye?” I ask.

  Mom’s wearing her usual morning attire for this
time of year: several layers consisting of a sweater, sheepskin moccasins, and a housecoat with a fleece vest over top. All is status quo except for a damp brown lump she’s wearing like an eye patch. Her head is tilted back slightly to keep the wad in place.

  “Just a used teabag,” she says, turning carefully. “Looks like another chilly morning out there. I should get the fire going.”

  “What’s it doing on your eye?”

  “Pumpkin got a little up close and personal last night.” Mom’s allergy to cats has dwindled over the years, but from time to time she still shows symptoms. Of all the cats, Pumpkin seems to bring out the worst of Mom’s allergy. “Teabags are great for reducing swelling and soreness. It’s the tannic acid.”

  “Noted,” I say, hurriedly packing my old gym bag.

  “Come and see this email I got this morning.”

  “I’m in a bit of a hurry, Mom.”

  “Seriously, check it out.” She tilts the screen of her new computer in my direction. I scan her inbox. I only have to read the subject line to know I don’t need to go any further. The Amazing Walnut!

  “It lists all the ways walnuts are healthy. They are amazing.”

  Mom doesn’t really look like a pirate, but because of her soggy eye patch I take a second to tell her she does anyway. I hear a honk from outside. Dad’s waiting in his idling truck; grey exhaust is spiralling into the frigid air.

  “I’m fine with that,” Mom replies. “Better than a puffy-eyed boxer.”

  “I gotta go, Mom. Where’s a clean towel?”

  “Where they always are,” she says. “Iain?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “What’s a pirate’s favourite restaurant?”

  I don’t have time for this. I lunge for my coat.

  “I don’t know, Mom.”

  She pauses. “Arrrby’s.”

  “Good one, Mom. I seriously have to go . . . Dad’s waiting . . .”

  “But Iain . . .”

  I freeze at the door. Looking back, I see a single brown tea tear dripping down Mom’s cheek.

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “What’s a pirate’s favourite TV show?”

  In the truck I can see Dad’s frustration mounting on his face. He’s looking in at the porch disconcertingly.

  “Mom, I gotta go.”

  But before the door swings shut behind me, I hear her answer.

  “E-RRRRR!”

  At the gym Dad explains to the abnormally brawny fellow behind the desk that I’m his guest. I’m standing at his side, peeking over his shoulder as if I’m five. I want to stare at the floor and hold the cuff of Dad’s jacket. Brawny Guy eyes me up and down, as if to say You’ve got a lot of work to do.

  Dad, walking a couple of steps ahead of me, nods to everyone we pass. Most are hunched and limp along slowly; they all have white hair, if any at all.

  In the change room I follow Dad to the lockers.

  “I always use this one,” he says, opening the metal door and kicking his shoes inside.

  We’re going to share a locker because I have no combination lock of my own. As Dad hangs his jacket to my left, a stranger flanks me to my right. He’s older than Dad and has thinning grey hair. His wrinkled skin hangs loosely from his skeleton like a pink robe. His towel is draped over his shoulder and he’s buck-naked. I’m sitting on the wooden bench staring at the empty locker straight ahead. The old naked man turns towards Dad and rests his left foot on the bench. “This damn cold is here to stay,” he says, laying his towel on the ground. “That wind feels ruthless.”

  That’s because you’re naked, I want to remind him.

  “Yup, it’s pretty cold,” says Dad indifferently. “Nothing we can do about that.”

  The old man takes a comb from the top shelf of his locker and begins to slick back his damp hair. As he grooms himself, a second naked man of a similar vintage appears, popping out from behind the neighbouring bank of lockers.

  “Done your exercise for another day?” he asks the first old naked man.

  “You bet,” he answers. “This is my favourite time of day.”

  The two stand casually together, continuing their discourse as I lace up my running shoes.

  Loafing along on the treadmill, I’m watching a woman in front of me doing chin-ups. As she reaches up to grab the silver bar for another set, the front edge of her tight shirt comes up slightly. For a second I catch a glimpse of her stomach. I can see her ribs pressing against her skin, and it reminds me of the skeletal frame of the unfinished barn in one of the neighbouring fields when I was growing up.

  I look to my left and my right. When did this fitness revolution take place? When did this running, stepping, and gliding on electronic machines in front of TVs become the accepted form of exercise, replacing morning walks and working outdoors?

  To be fair, some aren’t watching TV; some are reading trashy celebrity gossip magazines. Aren’t most of the photos airbrushed and modified on computers? I guess virtue has become linked to our appearance. To be moral is to be in shape. The Greeks had their omniscient gods built on myths and we have ours.

  As I walk along on the treadmill, I spot the muscular guy from the front counter sweeping up what appears to be a small mound of mud. He looks irked. I follow the mud droppings from the change-room hall to the water fountain to the treadmill I’m walking on, and then to my shoes. I forgot that I’ve been wearing these same running shoes — my only pair — in the barn. I could go and change into the shoes I wore to the gym, but they’re heavy winter boots. Not an option. I have to stick with my muddy runners, even if the dirt is laced with sheep manure. I’m aware that I’m not making any friends.

  When the digital readout on the treadmill indicates I’ve been walking for eleven minutes, two women with chunky legs squeezed into tight black pants start arguing about whose turn it is next. The entire row of treadmills is occupied. The woman who’s been walking beside me explains that she has only five minutes of her workout left. The other woman is holding a clipboard, passive-aggressively claiming that it doesn’t matter because she’s signed up for the machine now.

  Eleven minutes should be good for me. I’m sweating. The guy with the broom is getting closer anyway, and the women seem upset that there’s new competition for their machines. I hit the Stop button, spray down the machine, smile at the ladies in tight pants, and head for the weights.

  “Lookin’ to workin’?” a man asks, hopping up and down on the spot. He’s the closest thing to my peer. I’d put him somewhere in his early fifties but he looks to be in reasonable shape. He’s wearing a tank top and a baseball hat and has a trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee. As I walk over, he’s between sets.

  “Sure,” I say. “My legs could use some work.” My legs could use some work?

  “Lemme just get one more set in first.”

  Without waiting for a response, he steps back to the equipment, focuses somewhere in front of him, and begins his set. The machine has two black handles suspended just above the floor. The user is meant to bend at the knees, grab the handles, stand, and then bend again, all the while maintaining a straight back. The exercise is called a dead lift. It’s meant to strengthen the legs and lower back. As soon as he starts, the man’s formerly amiable face twists into a tight red mass of veins. With each lift he releases a deep, glottal moan. The harder the set becomes, the louder he grunts and the more he contorts his face. On his final rep he releases what can only be described bluntly as a wail, which lasts for several seconds. I look around the gym, expecting a reaction, but no one seems to notice. He releases the handles, rolls his shoulders, and looks at me.

  “Okay, you ready?” he asks.

  I nod and move into position, gripping the warm handles. Just as I’m poised to begin, he starts tapping my muddy left
shoe with his pristine white one.

  “You need to be a little wider,” he’s saying. “Just a little.” I silently obey, moving my foot a few inches to the left. “No, too far,” he snaps. “Just keep ’em shoulder width. Shoulder width is key.”

  We continue this dance — a little wider, a little closer — until he backs away, bobbing his head in satisfaction. “Perfect,” he says. “Now you’re ready.”

  Keeping my feet planted in exactly the same position proves tricky. By rep five my legs are starting to tremble. By seven I can barely make it back up again. By eight I’m done. An underwhelming first set by any standard.

  When the man in the cap takes the handles again, I’m curious to see how long he takes to set his own feet after spending what felt like several hours on mine. But he begins instantly. His feet are at least a foot outside shoulder width. It’s not even close. When he finishes, I’m waiting for some explanation as to why his feet were so wide apart, but he says nothing and again motions for me to take over.

  “Don’t forget,” he says, tapping me on the shoulder and heading for the water fountain, “shoulder width and you’ll be fine.”

  I remove half of the weights and perform my second and final set. The dead lifts have tired me out. I grab a soft blue mat from a pile and head for an isolated corner. I complete one set of twenty push-ups, fleetingly consider doing the same number of sit-ups, and opt instead to flop down on my back.

  I lie there for a long time, breathing through my nose and staring up at the ceiling. I flip over onto my stomach and watch all the elderly jocks. I’m struck by the irony of their morning workouts. Mostly they stand in groups of three or four, talking and joking, occasionally shuffling over to a machine to pull some type of weighted cable. Others sit, bouncing on large colourful rubber balls. If they were fifty or sixty years younger and wearing snowsuits, I’d swear they had just been plucked from recess. Their lack of strenuous activity makes me feel better about my own unproductive morning.

  Towelling off in the locker room, I turn to Dad. He’s sitting on the bench beside me, red-faced and shirtless.