I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow

by Jonathan Goldstein

  SUNDAY.

  It’s Mother’s Day, my nephew’s first, and when I get to the Greek restaurant my family is already at the table.

  We focus all our attention on the baby. We constantly worry for his comfort and safety, and so every time he shifts in his baby seat, we clutch our hearts and mop the sweat from our brows with fistfuls of napkin.

  “I love him so much it hurts,” my sister says, her hand on her mouth.

  “Me too,” my father says. “It physically hurts.”

  “It’s like someone is beating me with sandbags,” my mother says.

  “With me it’s more of a stabbing,” my father counters.

  “I love him so much,” my aunt says, “it’s like having a serrated blade corkscrewed into my side.”

  Not one to be outdone, my sister weighs in again: “I love him so much I feel like I’m drowning in love and can’t breathe.” She demonstrates the sensation by making gagging and gasping noises while scratching at the air.

  As we eat, my father accidentally tips a plate of olive oil onto his lap. Pretty soon afterwards, my aunt somehow manages to drip the wax from the candelabra onto her pants, and when I look over at my mother, she is wearing a bib of smeared tzatziki sauce across the chest of her black turtleneck.

  Ironically, the baby proves to be the neatest eater of us all. Truly, it feels like he is the best of us all. I look over at him and he smiles a little smile at me that fills my heart with so much love … it’s as though I have had my eyes sprayed with mace and my heart stabbed with a salad fork. Wincing, I reach across the table for another soothing spoonful of taramasalata, and as I do, I drag my jacket sleeve through a puddle of spilled gravy. It feels like the final brush stroke to a happy family portrait.

  Beating God to the Punch

  (12 weeks)

  SUNDAY.

  In celebration of spring, I’ve shaved my head again.

  After work, I meet up with Gregor for a drink.

  “Again with the shaved head,” he cries at the sight of me. “You used to have funny hair—hair that a person could laugh at. You might as well kiss your comedy career goodbye.”

  “First of all,” I say, “I’m not a comedian. I’m a humorist.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A humorist is a comedian who doesn’t necessarily make you laugh.”

  “Well, anyone who is even adjacent to the comedy biz, be it rodeo clown or wise-cracking waitress, needs to look funny.”

  “Come on,” I say. “I’ve just traded the wild wispy locks of a Larry Fine for the clean-shaven dome of a Curly Howard.What I’m saying is I’m still a stooge. Plus, this way, I don’t have to worry about going bald, because I’ve beaten God to the punch.”

  Gregor shakes his head.

  “That’s like being a bread that advertises itself as already stale so you don’t have to worry about it going bad.”

  My balding began in grade eight. I was the only kid in junior high who was already sporting a comb-over by the age of twelve. Now when I see young guys, still teenagers, walking around with thinning hair, I just want to gather them up in my arms like fallen comrades. I’d tell them “it gets better” but that would be a lie as it only gets worse. Except in the case of Bruce Willis. And George Foreman.

  On the one hand, losing your hair happens so slowly that it allows you to adjust. That’s a kindness on nature’s part. (And what with the lions eating gazelles, the tsunamis, and such, nature’s not always the nicest.) But in other ways, the slowness is part of the painful absurdity. It’s like being gradually ladled in a hot sticky cherry sauce of baldness. You feel it coming down but, like one of those nightmares where you’re immobilized, you just stay there, taking it.

  As a child, I always wanted to succeed, get somewhere in life—but I wanted to do it with my hair. To do so bald seemed pointless. As one’s baldness blossoms, so too does a kind of low-grade nihilism. And I should say that a greater indignity than merely going bald was going bald in the manner known in bald circles as “The Friar Tuck.” This is when you maintain the wisps at the front—those brave, stupid soldiers who maintain their post in the front ranks, never having learned that the war’s been lost and the officers in the back have all gone home.

  Oh sure, now that I’m an adult, I could get myself a wig—something blond and floppy like Alexander Godunov’s mane. But with friends like mine, it’d end up torn from my skull and hackysacked about the room. Of course I could move to a new city and start over, but it takes so long for me to make new friends. Even terrible ones.

  THURSDAY.

  I’m halfway through the new Philip Roth book. My progress is slow, because every couple paragraphs I turn back to the author’s photo on the jacket. Roth’s right eye looks so much like my father’s that I can’t stop examining it. Everyone has one eye that looks kinder than the other and Roth’s kind eye is his right. I have noted in photos that my father’s kind eye is his left, but even his right eye is kinder than Roth’s right. If I were Philip Roth I would consider an eye patch. I’m sure he’s the kind of man whose friends wouldn’t dare tear it off.

  To the Bottom!

  (11 weeks)

  SUNDAY.

  I’ve recently taken up running and have been trying to figure out a route that would allow me to run nearly all the way downhill, while never having to actually go uphill. Short of living in an M.C. Escher drawing, though, I fear this might be an impossible undertaking. Running downhill reminds you of what a powerful force gravity actually is. If only we could harness it. (Imagine a perfect world where a million marbles roll down the side of a mountain to power a trolley that transports the same marbles back to the top of the mountain. Utopia!)

  I run at night because the streets are emptier and there’s less chance of bumping into someone I know. Plus, there’s something about running down the street dressed in what has normally been my sleep attire—sweatpants and a Canada’s Wonderland sweatshirt—that makes me feel like I’m running away from my woes, escaping a burning house of troubles in the middle of the night. Jogging is good for the heart, but it can also be good for the soul.

  MONDAY.

  Walking home from work, I spot one of the most masculine-looking men I’ve ever seen—a construction worker who looks more like Henry Rollins than Henry Rollins. The lines in his forehead appear to have teeth and, to top it off, he’s wearing a hard hat and chewing on what appears to be a matchstick.

  Inhabiting the same universe as this man is enough to make me feel like a prepubescent Mia Farrow.

  At home I phone Gregor.

  “I fear I haven’t enough machismo,” I say. “I bear not even a passing resemblance to any of the masculine stereotypes outlined by the Village People—construction worker, cowboy, biker—not a one.”

  “Wasn’t there a passive-aggressive accountant?” he asks.

  “Wore a cardigan with torn-off sleeves? Carried a leather abacus board?”

  “I need to make some changes,” I say.

  “You can’t turn a taco into a burrito.”

  “Sure you can,” I say. “You just pack more stuff in there.”

  “Pack too much in a taco and it breaks. Burritos have bottoms.”

  “I have a lovely bottom. Some say it’s the rump of a Greek god.”

  “If you really want to be more macho,” Gregor says, “you might want to stop talking about your ‘lovely bottom.’”

  Since a bottom as lovely as mine doesn’t stay that way by merely being sat upon, I set out for an evening run.

  ON BEING THE FASTEST RUNNER: THE HARE RETORTS

  Honourable animals of the forest counsel, Secretary Otter and Chairperson Skunk, I’m sorry but I must interrupt. I know that time is of the essence, so I’ll keep my remarks brief.

  I stand before you not an arrogant hare, nor a flashy hare as some of you would have it, but merely a hare who cares about this forest and its creatures.

  I’ve not come to cast aspersions on The Tortoise. This is not
a time for partisanship. Whether you be a Hare man or a Tortoise man, we must all work together. To save the forest from its impending doom, it’s important that you know the truth about the race known as “Tortoise vs. Hare,” or as the tabloids put it in bold sixteen-point headlines, “Tortoise Beats Showboat Hare in Upset of the Decade.”

  The fact of the matter is The Tortoise cheated.

  I know how this makes me look. The Hare is a poor loser, you say. The Hare has a problem with tortoises. Well, I’ll stop you right there. Let the record show that I’ve nothing against turtles of any kind. The Snapping Turtle is godfather to twentyseven of my kids, for crying out loud.

  But if you think there’s any chance that Tortoise beat me fair and square, you are deluding yourselves. Tortoises don’t just have a “reputation” for being slow. They haven’t been “socially conditioned” to think the’re slow. They are slow. Everyone knows this. It’s not a question. It’s not debatable. It just is.

  So imagine my surprise when one morning I wake up to discover the entire forest is talking about how I challenged The Tortoise to a race. Think about it: Why would a hare challenge a tortoise to a race? It doesn’t make sense. What would it prove? If I win, I’m an asshole; if I lose, I’m an embarrassment to my species.

  I should have had my head read for agreeing to it in the first place. I guess I wanted to be a good sport. I guess I wanted you all to like me. Fat chance of that. Oh, how I was vilified after that race! In the picture they ran on the cover of the Forest Post I’m pulling my whiskers out, stomping on my top hat, and yelling at a judging official. There I was—the arrogant, buck-

  toothedhare with the fabulous libido that everyone loves to hate—finally receiving my comeuppance.

  And the lies that were told about the race itself! Why would I stop just shy of the finish line and eat a large turkey dinner with all the trimmings? Or why would I pull out a beach chair and take a suntanning break? First of all, I burn easily, and second—what am I, an idiot?

  In the days after the race, when I put forth my multiple tortoises in multiple forest nooks theory, I was labelled a paranoid. A conspiracy nut. Not to mention a speciesist for suggesting that tortoises all look the same. But I knew then as I know now that there was a network of them—tortoises, all working in cahoots, stationed behind trees, hiding in briar patches all along the racing route.

  Nonetheless, The Tortoise was awarded the title of fastest in the forest, and I’d no choice but to shake his wrinkled green hand and congratulate him.

  But dear fellow forest-dwellers, back to the business of this emergency meeting. As Smokey Bear alerted us this morning, the forest is burning. And with all due respect to the authority of this counsel, sending The Tortoise as messenger to tell the creatures of these woods that a fire is raging and they must run for their lives—not the best choice in the world.

  The Tortoise left three hours ago, but if you rise up onto your toes, you can still see him creeping along, down at the bottom of the hill.

  So he cheated. Who among us hasn’t? Possum’s cheated at checkers. Fox’s cheated on his taxes. And I’m the first to admit that because of my own arrogance, I’ve cheated myself out of your friendship. And also I’ve cheated with some of your wives. The point is, we can no longer let this Tortoise charade go on. If we don’t do something now, lives will be lost.

  So just give me the okay to get running, and as soon as I pick up my top hat at the blockers, fill my jogging pipe with tobacco, and get my retainer inserted, I’ll be on my way.

  All in favour say “aye.” For the love of this forest and all that is good, please say aye.

  Sing the Tune Without the Words

  (10 weeks)

  MONDAY.

  Tony stops by for coffee.

  “I broke the one-thousand-friend mark on Facebook today,” he says. “That’s over three times the population of the high school I went to. Do you know how popular the teenage me would have thought the adult me was?”

  “Do you feel popular?”

  “Not really,” he says dejectedly. “Out of that thousand, probably not one would pick me up at the airport or help me move.”

  TUESDAY.

  Nostalgic for the past, I take my yearbook off the shelf and page through it.To complement my wallowing, I head to a Dunkin’ Donuts to read while eating Munchkins.

  I study my photo. So fresh faced. Favourite quote: “Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing.” Ah, the wing of the chicken! Like my own hopes, it was the thing that once had feathers.

  I get up to order more Munchkins and leave my high school yearbook in the booth. With any luck, it’ll have been stolen by the time I get back, and I’ll be able to dine without a lump in my throat.

  THURSDAY.

  Marie-Claude and Helen stop by. Helen offers me some gum. It’s green.

  “In my day, green meant spearmint,” I say. “Now it can mean anything from ‘extra cool granny smith apple’ to ‘outrageously sour lime.’ To assure people my age that we don’t have to fear cardiac arrest after a few chews, Trident now advertises its peppermint flavour as being ‘less intense’!”

  Helen inches away.

  “You’re becoming an old crank,” Marie-Claude says.

  “Like Walt Whitman,” I say defensively, “I celebrate myself, and sing myself.”

  s“But unlike Walt Whitman—you’re not Walt Whitman.”

  Down the Aisle

  (9 weeks)

  FRIDAY, 7:00 A.M.

  Waking up this morning, it occurs to me that if grade school went on forever, I’d now be in grade thirty-four. As a function of seniority, I’d have one of the nicest lockers in the school—close to the cafeteria and roomy enough for all my cholesterol pills.

  But school doesn’t go on forever, and people get married. People like Tony, even. Of whom, a group of us are planning to show up at his house this evening. To kidnap him. For his bachelor’s party.

  6:30 P.M.

  As a group, we lack the organizational skill to pull off an actual “throw him in the trunk” kidnapping, and so the whole thing has a rather perfunctory feel. We show up in the evening, ring the doorbell, and Natalie invites us in for coffee and cake.

  “The wedding’s tomorrow and I haven’t written my vows yet,” Tony says once we’re outside. “I was going to write them tonight.”

  “Just get some vows off the internet,” says Tucker.

  7:05 P.M.

  At the Kart-O-Mania go-cart racetrack we squeeze our heads into ill-fitting helmets.We are shown a three-minute safety video, none of which we can hear because of the skin-tight helmets. Finally, we are given cars and released onto the track.

  My go-cart driving style owes something to my Pac-Manning style: I drive aggressively but with hesitation, toggling between flooring the gas and slamming on the brake.This leads to my being waved over by an employee.

  My sense of shame at being reprimanded by a seventeen-year-old track attendant for not obeying the rules of go-cart road safety is outdone only by my sense of fear that I will die on a go-cart track. I can only imagine how the obituary would read.

  After an evening of racing, cigar smoking, eating, drinking, and then eating some more, it’s 3:00 a.m. We drop Tony off and watch him stagger up his front walk.

  “Now go write those vows,” says Tucker out the car window as we drive off.

  SATURDAY.

  The wedding is at a country sugar shack, and so Howard regales our group with tales of sugarings-off past.

  “One time, a man I didn’t even know offered me five hundred dollars to drink an entire jug of maple syrup.”

  “Talk about an indecent proposal,” I say.

  “I declined,” Howard says.

  “Regret it?” I ask.

  “On some days,” he says wistfully.

  All the while, off in the corner, Tony is hunched over some papers. It appears he is still trying to get his vows written.

  The caterers have provided branches for the weddinggoers
to roast their own marshmallows, but the kids have monopolized them all. Josh complains about the situation and I gesture to the trees around us.

  “I know you’re not much of an outdoorsman,” I say, “but we are in the middle of a forest, and that is where branches come from.”

  “I don’t want a dirty branch,” he says sheepishly. “I want a nice clean wedding branch.”

  I’m about to ask him if he’s considered eating his marshmallow raw, as there is a culinary movement that celebrates that sort of thing, but the ceremony is about to begin. On the way to the altar, I reintroduce myself to Tony’s Greek mother, whom I haven’t seen in years.

  “You used to call me The Alley-Cat-Haired Jew,” I say, and she nods in recognition.

  After the band finishes playing, the vows begin, and I find myself really worried for Tony.

  “Love means holding your hand, even when I’m not next to you,” Natalie says, going first. “It means striving to be a better person, for both of our sakes. I vow to grow old with you, and most importantly, to grow young with you.”

  “Me too,” Tony responds, his eyes welling up with tears. “Me too.”

  The Levy Equation

  (8 weeks)

  SUNDAY.

  It’s six o’clock in the evening and I’ve just woken from a four-hour nap. Rather than feeling refreshed, I feel discombobulated, depressed, and nauseated. I head out for coffee.

  The man who works at the coffee shop near my house bears a striking resemblance to Eugene Levy, but the thing is, he’s nothing like Eugene Levy. I dislike him for the way he scowls and grumbles while making espresso, yet I know that I would not judge him nearly as harshly if he did not look so much like Eugene Levy. It’s unfair, but I’m always let down by the discrepancy between his Eugene Levy looks and his un-Eugene-Levy-like behaviour. As I await my coffee, I realize that my dislike of the coffee counterman is inversely proportional to my love of Eugene Levy. Also, the counterman makes one of the best coffees in the city, and so it’s as though his bitterness is directly proportional to the quality of the coffee he makes. I’m sure these thoughts can be expressed through an equation, but I’m not sure what it would be.