‘Where’s Fennel?’ Wallace grabs the chips from Milo.
‘She went home.’
‘What, she didn’t want to dry-hump on the couch?’
‘Fenny’s not too comfortable here.’
‘Her name is Fennel.’
‘She feels your hostility, Wally, but she totally loves Vera.’
‘Is somebody calling?’ Vera queries from the top of the stairs.
‘Nothing. Everything’s fine, Mother. Go back to bed.’
‘I could have sworn I heard my name.’
‘I was just saying Fenny loves you,’ Pablo explains.
‘Does she now? How darling. Is she kipping over?’
‘No, she has class early.’
‘Well, tell her she’s welcome anytime she feels a bit peckish.’
‘Mother, would you please just go to bed.’
‘Keep your wig on, Wally.’
‘It’s just you need sleep. You can’t keep falling asleep in chairs. It’s embarrassing.’
‘For who?’ she asks.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Has anybody seen my glasses?’
‘Sarah Moon Dancer has a Congo African Grey parrot,’ Pablo says, pushing the La-Z-Boy into the reclining position. ‘She got him from a rescue centre. His previous owners were Iranians.’
Zosia has moved on and Milo continues to coast, his wounded heart barely beating.
‘The Iranians locked the parrot in a closet,’ Pablo says. ‘When he’s stressed out he speaks Farsi. He reminds me of Wally.’
‘Wallace doesn’t speak Farsi.’ Milo grabs the remote and stops at a tennis tournament, although he has no interest in tennis.
‘The parrot’s name is Fuego. Do you know what fuego means, Milo? Fire.’ Pablo pulls the blanket up to his chin. ‘Sarah said she called him fire because he was so angry all the time. Just like Wally, he was burning up with anger. She says when she got Fuego, he was so lonely he was plucking his own feathers. That’s what parrots do when they’re stressed out, and sometimes the feathers don’t grow back. There’s a whole bunch of bald parrots at the rescue. They have to keep them in specially heated rooms. That’s what Wallace is doing. He’s so lonely he’s plucking his own feathers.’
A tennis player misses a ball and strides around the court, shaking his racquet.
‘Fuego says “yubba dubba doo” a lot, and tells Sarah to clean up his poop. “Fuego did a poopoo, Mommy, pick up my poopoo.” He’s really smart. He likes to sing “Jingle Bells” and when Sarah gets takeout, Fuego says, “What’d you get me?” He loves lemon grass.’
‘Wallace hates Thai food. And he doesn’t sing “Jingle Bells.”’
‘I wish he would let Sarah help him with his transformational healing.’
‘All Wallace wants is to fuck Fennel. If you want to heal him, let him at her.’
‘I can’t believe you said that, Milo.’
‘I can’t believe a lot of things. You living in my house, for example. What else did Zosia say?’
‘About what?’
‘There was a shooting at her restaurant, for fuck’s sake, didn’t she mention it?’
‘No, she said her mother’s sick. She’s really worried about her but she’s scared if she goes home they won’t let her back into Canada.’
Zosia scared? Unimaginable. If he’d married her, this wouldn’t be happening. But she never asked him to marry her. Should he have asked her, with a honey-I-love-you ring in hand? Why is it the guy who has to bring this stuff up?
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’
‘No sé. You don’t still love her, do you, Milo? Now that you love Tanis?’
‘I don’t love Tanis.’ The losing tennis player starts berating a judge.
‘Sometimes I think I still love Maria, but then I think of Fennel and it’s like, it’s like she’s all the stars in my firmament. My father always said he couldn’t love only one woman but I’m a one-woman man.’
‘You said that about Maria.’
‘It was different with Maria.’
‘Where did you see her?’
‘Who?’
‘Zosia.’
‘College and Spadina. Me and Fenny were getting art supplies.’
The loser tennis player misses another ball and starts to cry in the rain. Umbrellas pop up in the stands as the crowd disperses.
‘Order what you want,’ Sammy says. ‘The rib steak is bootiful.’
‘Goes great with sweet potato fries,’ Birgit offers. She looks older than on the website. Grey roots show beneath her voluminous blond hair.
‘I think I’ll have the salmon,’ Milo says.
‘Bootiful.’ Sammy waves the menu at the waitress. Milo drinks more beer.
‘We’re so glad you watched our show,’ Birgit says.
‘Actually, I didn’t. Some friends did.’
‘So you didn’t see your father?’
‘My friends did. He has a Nazi scar. Actually, it’s Russian.’
Tanis and Robertson did not leave the house this morning. Milo loitered in the yard from seven a.m.
‘You must be overjoyed to discover that your father is still alive,’ Birgit says.
‘Overjoyed.’
‘Bootiful,’ Sammy says, tucking into the breadbasket. Milo marvels that Sammy’s hair doesn’t move, although it’s combed straight back from his forehead. Milo tried this style once in an effort to look like a young William Hurt. But the hair just flopped over his face.
‘Why won’t you tell me where he is?’ he asks.
‘Aha,’ Sammy says, pointing a mini baguette at him, ‘because we have to be sure you’re not an imposter.’
‘Who would I be pretending to be?’
‘Yourself.’
‘People try all kinds of stuff,’ Birgit clarifies.
‘Why would I pretend to be myself? I mean, who wants to be me?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Sammy says.
‘There’s a lot of sickos out there,’ Birgit adds.
‘So, how do we know you are, in fact, you?’ Sammy inquires.
‘Driver’s licence? Although I guess that’s not much use since you don’t even know my father’s name. What about my father’s driver’s licence?’ He pulls out Gus’s wallet and shows them his picture. ‘Is that him?’
‘Could be,’ Sammy says. He and Birgit study Gus’s and Milo’s driver’s licences.
‘They’ve got the same last name,’ Birgit says. ‘Is Krupi Italian?’
‘Actually, it was originally Krupanski. Polish. Gus changed it when he came to Canada. His real name is Gustav, but spelled with a w.’
‘So you’re first generation,’ Birgit concludes. ‘That sells.’
The food arrives and Milo tries to enjoy his salmon but they keep staring at him.
‘Your father was beat up by Nazis?’ Sammy inquires.
‘Russians. Well, first Germans, then Russians.’
‘Your father escaped?’ Birgit asks.
‘Eventually.’
‘Bootiful.’
They drive in Sammy’s Mercedes to the Reality Check headquarters to show Milo the footage. When he sees Gus limp in the vinyl chair, it’s as though someone is bouncing a basketball off his head. Gus never sat limp. Gus was chronically energized. Even in the La-Z-Boy he caused friction. ‘Can I see it again?’ Milo pulls his chair closer to the screen. They play it for him six times.
‘I take it that’s him,’ Birgit says.
‘It is.’
‘Bootiful.’ Only now does Milo notice the cameraman hidden behind the plastic palms. ‘So now we talk business. We tell you where he is if you let us put you on the show.’
‘I don’t want to be on the show, this is private.’
‘How much do you want?’ Birgit demands.
‘It’s not about money.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘We’ll pay you a thousand dollars,’ Sammy offers. Even Milo knows this is low. He tries to guess how high th
ey will go, what it’s worth to them. A few thousand would temporarily free him of junk removal and auditions for Everyman commercials and shows going different ways.
‘Two thousand,’ Sammy says.
‘I’m not sure I’m ready for this,’ Milo says.
‘You said you wanted to see him,’ Birgit says, pulling a chair next to him and sitting with her breasts within groping distance. ‘You contacted us.’
‘Yes, but now that I’ve seen him, I’m not so sure.’
‘What’s not to be sure about?’ Sammy cries. ‘He’s your father. You love him, he loves you.’
‘Turn the camera off,’ Milo commands.
‘Certainly,’ Sammy says, gesturing to the cameraman.
‘I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Three thousand.’
‘What’s the institution like?’ Milo asks.
‘Is that what concerns you?’ Sammy asks. ‘No worries. We can make it nice.’
‘Which means it’s not nice.’
‘What do you want for free?’ Birgit says. Her perfume is becoming pungent as she becomes agitated. ‘We’ll get you a new wardrobe and clean you up a bit, clean your dad up.’
‘It will be bootiful.’ Sammy spreads his hands, suggesting headlines. ‘The Reunion of a Lifetime.’
‘Twenty thousand,’ Milo says.
‘Ten,’ Birgit replies.
‘Fifteen.’
‘Eleven. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it, now or never.’
If he walks away from this, he will lose Gus. Again. And eleven G’s.
‘Deal.’
Stu, the agent, is flattering a client who works regularly. ‘Seriously, chief, you were awesome.’
‘I wasn’t sure, dude.’ Dino Maffucci works regularly because he is cast whenever an Italian thug is required.
‘It was Actors Studio stuff, chief, seriously. You were right there. It was like … you didn’t want to kill him but you had to kill him.’
‘I’m always worried I play stereotypes.’
‘Absolutely not. Seriously.’
Dino notices Milo. ‘Whassup, dude?’
‘Not much.’
‘Did you audition for that concentration-camp flick?’
‘No.’
‘You’re lucky, dude, a bunch of queens running the show. They made me take my shirt off.’
Milo doesn’t admit that he took his shirt off for a beer commercial and that he strips naked for thirty bucks an hour.
‘Is that a problem, chief?’ Stu asks. ‘You work out. You might as well flaunt it.’
‘Not in front of a pack of queens. Save it for the chicks, dude.’
‘I hear ya,’ Stuart concedes. It baffles Milo that Dino hasn’t figured out Stuart is gay. Dino’s cell blares Beatles music. He checks caller ID. ‘It’s my mom.’ He starts speaking Italian into the phone.
‘Are you busy, Stuart?’ Milo asks. ‘You said you wanted to talk.’
‘Just let me finish up with Dino.’ He fawns over the knucklehead for another twenty minutes before ushering Milo into his inner office.
‘The agency people were not happy with your attitude,’ Stu says.
‘Really? I can’t imagine why.’
‘Where is your professionalism, Milo? Seriously, I have a reputation here. If I can’t send you to auditions 100 percent certain that you will behave in a professional manner, I have no business sending you at all. Do you think those agency people will ever trust me again? Absolutely not. My professional affiliations are at stake here.’
Milo would like to walk out, or fart loudly, but who else would have him as a client? He tries to look pensive because he can’t bring himself to apologize.
‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’ Stu demands.
‘What’s the concentration-camp flick?’
‘I am not sending you on one more audition until you give me your word that you will behave professionally.’
‘You have my word.’
Stu takes a call about shooting days for some actor Milo’s never heard of. There are always more of them, fresh out of acting school, pumped for stardom. Milo surreptitiously glances at the papers on Stu’s desk, looking for signs of potential jobs. He sees several contracts. Somebody’s working.
Stu hangs up. ‘So, where were we?’
‘Concentration-camp flick. What is it?’
‘It’s HBO. They need a guard.’
Sounds like an excellent opportunity for a bad actor. ‘Count me in.’
‘Only if you swear on your mother’s grave that you will behave in a professional manner.’
Milo doesn’t tell him that his mother doesn’t have a grave. ‘I swear.’
Because Stuart’s office is near College and Spadina, Milo wanders the neigbourhood on the off chance that he might run into Zosia. He’s concerned about the fat development; surely it’s a symptom of something else: diabetes, elephantiasis, depression. He knows from watching his mother swell up that antidepressants cause bloating. If the weight gain is depression- or stress-related it will only increase as a result of her anxiety regarding her mother. Zosia admired her mother, who kicked Soviet ass – she said she learned about endurance from her mother. During rare moments of vulnerability, Zosia admitted to missing her mother. And now the old woman is sick in a poor country receiving God only knows what kind of medical care.
‘Yo, dude,’ Dino Maffucci says. ‘Twice in one day, buddy. Must be kismet, you want to grab a java? I’ll buy.’
Why not? If he sits by a window he can keep an eye on the street.
‘You been busy?’ Dino asks, setting espressos on the table.
‘What do you know about the concentration-camp flick?’
‘It’s a love story. I read for the good Nazi.’
‘How’d it go?’
Dino shakes his head several times, indicating it didn’t go well. ‘Don’t you hate it when the director’s, like, sarcastic if you show any pride or positivity? You’re, like, sitting there, with no idea how you’re coming across, and these queens are acting like you’re boastful or something when all you’re trying to do is look confident. I hate it when that happens – it’s, like, I’m the guy auditioning, cut me some slack, dude. Plus they wanted me to cry. I can’t just, like, start bawling on cue. I mean, who does that?’
‘Was this before or after you took your shirt off?’
‘That’s the worst part, right, like, I’m standing there and I know I’ve blown it and I just want to get the fuck out of there and they ask me to strip.’
‘Does the good Nazi have nude scenes?’
‘Not total, it’s TV, right. But yeah, there’s love scenes. There’s this, like, totally erotic scene where he’s feeding the Jewish girl potato pancakes. She’s, like, starving, right?’ Dino stirs more sugar into his coffee. ‘Anyway, why’re you interested? Stu set you up?’
‘Just for a guard.’
‘I heard if you fit the uniform, you get the gig. They got all this Nazi garb from some other Nazi flick. And tell them you love dogs.’ His phone blares the Beatles again.
The queens sit behind a table littered with the compulsory bottles of Evian. They do not ask Milo to take his shirt off. A harried woman fits him into a Nazi guard jacket. ‘Eureka,’ she says, glumly. No one has provided pages to prepare. Milo hesitates to raise the question of lines now that the suit fits. The queens pass his resumé around while cracking open pistachio shells.
‘I speak some German,’ Milo offers.
‘Oh, really?’ a heavy-lidded one responds.
‘Meine luft kissenfahrzeug ist voll mit aulen.’
‘Impressive.’
Milo doesn’t tell them this means my hovercraft is full of eels, and is the only German he knows.
‘We don’t actually need you to speak German,’ another queen says, chewing a pistachio.
‘He looks good,’ a third comments. They seem to be looking at Milo’s body and not his head.
‘Interes
ting about Hitler and all that strychnine,’ he says in an effort to draw attention to his head.
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh, well, Hitler had digestive problems and took strychnine to stop farting. People thought he was a vegetarian because he loved animals, but really he quit meat because it made him rip.’
‘You don’t say,’ the heavy-lidded queen says.
‘On newsreels,’ Milo adds, ‘you can tell he’s doing major sphincter tightening to stop gas emissions.’ This gets a laugh from the queens. The suit fits and he got a laugh. The entertainer in Milo takes over and he snaps his heels together, thrusting his arm skyward, ‘Heil Hitler.’ The queens titter as he marches about the room, swinging his arms and legs. ‘Achtung!’ he commands.
‘Good, okay, now the Russians are shooting at you,’ the heavy-lidded queen directs. Milo ducks bullets, scampering from one end of the room to the other. ‘Scheisse,’ he says, which means shit.
‘Okay,’ the queen says. ‘Bang, they got you.’
‘They did?’ Must he die so soon?
‘Yes. You’re shot in the chest.’
Milo grabs his chest and stumbles backwards. He looks at the blood on his hands and says ‘Scheisse’ again.
‘Okay, now you fall down and die.’
Falling down without padding isn’t recommended but the show must go on. Milo stumbles into a wall, then slowly, hands over chest, slides down it, gasping until he collapses on his side. After some laboured breathing and shuddering, he lies inert.
‘Good,’ the heavy-lidded queen says and looks at his pistachio-eating associates. ‘Anything else you’d like him to do?’ Milo waits for them to ask him to take his shirt off.
‘How do you feel about dogs?’ a tight-lipped queen inquires.
‘I love dogs, totally. Canines rule.’
‘We’ll be in touch,’ the heavy-lidded queen says.
The harried woman removes the Nazi jacket and hustles the headless body out of the room. Stick that professionalism up your arse and smoke it.
he lovebirds sprawl, intertwined, on the couch, sharing a container of Häagen-Dazs. Pablo waves his spoon at Milo. ‘Java Chip, want some?’
‘Where’s Wallace?’
‘He had to take Vera to get her hair done.’
‘And drive her to a bridge party,’ Fennel adds.
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