I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow

by Jonathan Goldstein

  As I walk away with my sad, lonely cookie, I’m reminded of Ambrose Bierce’s definition, from his early 1900s Devil’s Dictionary, of an abstainer: “a weak person who yields to the temptation of denying himself a pleasure.” The book contains no definition of a person who yields to a third of a pleasure.

  If I were to write a dictionary of definitions that pertains to my own life, it would include such words as time (“that which is always there to assure me I am late”), moderately hopeless (“one who purchases a sixty-dollar warranty for a three-hundred-dollar radio, and, in anticipation of getting his money’s worth, anxiously awaits its malfunction”), and, of course, moderately hopeful (“one who orders his hamburgers with onions on the side, so that in case things don’t work out, there’s at least onions for later”).

  As I finish the last bite of my cookie, I am reminded of yet another definition that could go in the book—“cookie: an object that when eaten in singularity can produce dreadful yearning.”

  I get up and buy a second sixty-nine-cent cookie and, being the foolish, moderately hopeful creature that I am, I do not consider partaking of the special. This despite the fact that both the cashier and I know I’ll be back once again, probably within the next several minutes, for a third.

  Face to Face

  (1 week)

  SATURDAY, 10:00 A.M.

  Having returned home from New York after midnight, I wake up late and walk into the living room to watch cartoons. Boosh, asleep on the couch, is stirred awake. No sooner does she achieve consciousness than she is growling at me.

  “Booshie,” I say, my voice slipping into the easy falsetto of a man addressing a poodle in the privacy of his own home, “don’t you even know me anymore?”

  In reply, Boosh lets loose a series of barks, yips, and snarls that make me feel like a hobo trying to steal pie off a windowsill.

  I turn around and leave the room and she settles back into the couch. I should probably wash my face and get ready for the day anyway. That dog brings out the best in me.

  10:15 A.M.

  While brushing my teeth, I stare at myself in the mirror with great intensity. Sometimes I fear that Boosh can see through me—through the thin veil of niceties and pretend goodness that fools friends and family—to my soul.

  10:25 A.M.

  I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror far too long and have entered into a dangerous game: trying to see, without sentimentality, what other people see when they look at me.

  As a teenager I would lock myself in the bathroom and stare into my own eyes until, through some act of hypnotism, I could no longer recognize that person in the mirror as me. At which point I felt liberated, as if I’d escaped my “me-ness.” In that state, I was just another person in the world, born into personhood as my sister had been, as the old Polish butcher who delivered our chicken had been. I could see with clarity how pimply my skin was, how ill-fitting my burgundy turtleneck, and, despite the assurances of well-meaning aunts, how unlike Matt Dillon I actually did look. And like anyone else who wasn’t me, I could finally experience the exhilaration of bad-mouthing myself.

  10:40 A.M.

  I am not as good at this as I was as a teenager, for try as I might, I can still see something in the reflected jumble that is recognizable as “me.” I just can’t shake the feeling of kinship with the eyes staring back at me. I guess at this point I’ve just been me too long.

  At thirty-nine, it looks like I can safely assume that this kinship will always be there, whether those eyes in the mirror are sunk in an old man’s baked apple of a face or even floating free in a soup bowl of formaldehyde in some future sci-fiworld. There is a part of my brain that is now hard-wired to leap up and claim ownership, that shouts, perhaps against all good sense, “That’s me.”

  10:50 A.M.

  Boosh enters the bathroom. I stop staring at myself and pick her up. She licks my cheek and it feels nice to have someone appreciate my face, even if it’s only a poodle looking for breakfast.

  Late Bloomers

  (40th birthday)

  WEDNESDAY.

  I boiled eggs for my father and me on Sunday. I used the stopwatch on my wristwatch to make sure they were cooked for the perfect amount of time.Today I see that the stopwatch is still going. It reads seventy-four hours, twelve minutes, and forty-three seconds. Knowing precisely how long it’s been since I boiled eggs for my father and me fills me with a sudden sadness about the passing of time.

  FRIDAY, 8:00 A.M.

  The plan is to drive down to a rest stop in Newburgh, New York, find a hotel room for the night, and then drive back as early as I can to get to Montreal to host my fortieth birthday party.

  Having a rest stop as a point of destination feels odd, but I’m headed there to meet up with the producers of the radio show This American Life. I’m joining them there for the day to document a place that most people don’t even think of as a place so much as somewhere on the way to getting there.

  I’m turning forty at the stroke of midnight, and it feels appropriate that it should happen along a highway connecting New York, the place where I was born, and Montreal, the place where I may very well die.

  Beethoven plays on the car radio and the music lends my interior monologue about mortality a certain grandeur. Even my thoughts about whether the rest stop will have a Roy Rogers restaurant become imbued with the collective yearning of an entire species.

  11:00 A.M.

  I stand in the parking lot and look for people to interview. I feel like a teenager at a high school dance, too afraid to approach anyone for fear of being rejected.

  A microphone is a bit like a magic wand. Once it’s waved, it makes social conventions vanish, allowing you to ask anything you want of anyone. All it takes is the audacity to wave it.

  11:30 A.M.

  I take the plunge and approach a dad with his three young sons. I ask him which of the three has to sit in the middle and he points to his eldest.

  “I have no choice,” the boy says, motioning to each of his brothers. “They’ll kill each other without me between them.”

  “They can probably use a guy like you in the Middle East,” I say. “Have you ever considered becoming a diplomat someday?”

  “I thought about it,” he says, treating the question with great seriousness, “but I think I’d rather become a clown.”

  3:15 P.M.

  A single mom driving to Lake George with her nine-year-old son, Paul: “These trips are the only times we ever get to have long talks.”

  Sitting in the back seat with nothing to do gives Paul time to hatch questions like, “How long would you cry for if I died?” and “Are you ever sorry you married Dad instead of your old boyfriend?”

  She says she always tries to answer him honestly, but as he gets older, it becomes harder. During today’s drive he asked if she was really Santa. She told him she wasn’t and he said he knew it, but she thinks he was just trying to save face.

  8:00 P.M.

  A group of women out for a bachelorette party. The bride-to-be has no idea where she’s being driven.

  “All I know is they told me to bring a whistle and flip flops.”

  When I ask her friends if they’re just messing with her, they all shake their heads no. I ask the bride-to-be if she wouldn’t mind standing a few yards away so she can’t hear us. Then, once again, I ask her friends about the flip flops and whistle.

  “We’re totally messing with her,” they say.

  12:00 A.M.

  “This is the sound of me turning forty,” I say into the microphone. It sounds like rain beginning to fall, the passing of cars and trucks, of life whizzing by. I feel a lot like that bride-to-be who doesn’t know where she’s going but has faith it’s worth getting to and has faith the people who love her won’t, in the end, steer her wrong. Maybe we’re both not going to get where we thought we would, but surprises are nice, too.

  SATURDAY, 6:00 A.M.

  I drive back to Montreal to prepare. T
he last real birthday party I had was when I was six. My mother got the idea for a party game where you had to pop a balloon as fast as you could to get the pretzel inside. I was freaked out by the idea of hearing a balloon pop, let alone popping one myself. When it was my turn, I sat on my balloon. And nothing happened. I just sort of rolled around on it, pressing down as hard as I could, initially anxious about the popping but eventually concerned that it never would, that I was too tiny and unimportant to make it happen.

  After a great deal of laughing from the other kids, my father came over and stepped on the balloon with his loafer. He then scooped up the crushed pretzel and offered it to me.

  Over a dinner of hot dogs and chips, my friend Craig Huss wouldn’t stop teasing me about needing my father’s help, so I poured a glass of orange juice over his hot dog and my mother sent me to my room. It was probably only for a few minutes, but it felt like I was in there the whole party. I still remember how it felt to be lying on my bed and listening to my own party through the closed bedroom door.

  I think I’m just about ready for another try.

  5:30 P.M.

  As guests arrive, I find myself wandering from conversation to conversation. As a result, I catch only snippets.

  In the kitchen, Howard and Tony look like they’re deep in meaningful conversation.

  “We’re playing a game,” Tony explains when I walk over.“I just invented it. It’s called ‘Cozy or Claustrophobic.’ Like, for instance: a coffin?”

  “Claustrophobic,” Howard says.

  “Okay,” Tony answers, taking mental note.“How about a coffin with a teddy bear inside.”

  “Cozy,” says Howard.

  I refill their glasses and inch away.

  6:45 P.M.

  I wander onto the balcony.

  “I’d been hearing people talk about ‘stay-cations,’” Josh says. “And I couldn’t figure out how such a thing could become so popular.”

  “It’s because of the recession,” says Marie-Claude. “People ‘stay’ at home because that’s all they can afford.”

  “I know that now, but initially I thought it was a ‘steakacation,’” he says. “A vacation where you allow yourself to eat as much steak as you like. It’s what I did during my summer holiday and now I’ve gained six pounds.”

  “I just learned that ‘hump day’ means Wednesday,” Marie-Claude says.

  “What did you think it meant?” Josh asks.

  “Something dirty,” she says.

  “Oh, I’ve got one,” Natalie says. “I just learned where the word ‘swag’ comes from. It’s an acronym for ‘stuff we all get.’” Josh then asks if I’ll be giving out any swag. I offer to give him some CDs of my radio show, and he declines.

  8:00 P.M.

  Tucker is standing by himself, staring at the dessert table.

  “Have you had a piece of birthday cake yet?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “It’s a little too ornate for me.”

  “It is birthday cake, you know,” I say.

  “Yes,” he says, “but it looks like a big glop of makeup that fell off the Joker’s face.”

  Nonetheless, he cuts himself a piece and plops it onto his plate.

  “Thanks for the effort,” I say.

  “No problem,” he says. “I’m just a great guy.”

  10:15 P.M.

  The party’s in full swing. Howard is singing Sinatra into a chicken leg,Tony is smoking a cigar on his back, and Katie and Helen are dressing Boosh up in doll clothes.

  Gregor pulls me aside. “I’d say it’s all downhill from here but that would be the wrong expression, because going downhill is easy. It’s all uphill.And harder each day. Plus you’ll have to wake up and pee much more frequently and with greater urgency. But as you know, I’m an optimist, which is why I recently reached out to a contact I met at an incontinence conference from years ago. Guess who’s going to be the new face of adult diapers in North America, excluding Canada and the U.S.? That’s right, Signor Continental Incontinence.You.”

  “I didn’t make it,” I say. “This isn’t where I thought I’d be.”

  “That’s why people have kids,” he says, growing sombre. “Before I had mine, my inner monologue was ‘What to have for lunch? Ow, my stomach hurts. I shouldn’t have had that for lunch. What to have for dinner?’ And so on. But now, since having a son, a primordial protectiveness has kicked in. Just today I was crossing the street with him and thought,‘I will kill any driver who tries to jump this light.’”

  “But you’ve always been full of rage,” I say.

  “Indiscriminate rage,” he says. “But now my rage has purpose! Oh, it’s a wonderful rage that I hope you’ll one day know.”

  He pauses for a moment.

  “At least think about the incontinence thing. A diaper and sombrero could be a good look for you.”

  SUNDAY, 12:30 A.M.

  With Boosh curled into my chest, I fall asleep listening to the sound of my friends still going strong through the bedroom door. All in all, it feels like a pretty good night.

  2:10 A.M.

  I can’t sleep. I get up to find everyone gone and a halfeaten chicken leg floating in the toilet. I pour myself some orange juice and drink a farewell toast to my thirties.

  11:00 A.M.

  My father comes by for a breakfast of boiled eggs.

  “How do you feel about getting older?” I ask.“Because to me, aside from the getting sick and dying part, it doesn’t seem so bad.”

  “About a month ago,” my father says, “someone offered me their seat on the metro. It was the first time that’s ever happened to me.”

  “And?”

  “I accepted it,” he says. “In your forties, fifties, and sixties, you’re still competing for those seats.”

  “I’m pretty good hanging from the straps.”

  “You know, in some ways, I was looking forward to retirement since I was a kid,” he says.

  “Did you take to it right away?”

  “Not right away,” he says.“‘What will I do,’ I wondered.

  ‘What will I look forward to?’ That was scary.That first day, I remember sitting on the couch and looking out the back window. It was autumn and I watched all the kids going back to school, but for me it was a never-ending summer. No more weekends, because now it was all a weekend.”

  “Was there a turning point?”

  “Yes,” he says. “It was a foggy day. There was frost on the ground. But it was beautiful. I’d been moping around the house for weeks, and I finally decided to go to the library. I remember making my way there and feeling like I was moving in a specific direction. I was going to the library and whatever book I picked out, I’d have all day to enjoy it. Your mother had left me lunch in the refrigerator. It was chicken from the night before, and I was looking forward to that, too. That day felt like a beginning. There’s always a beginning.You just have to figure it out. As time went by I began to figure it out.”

  Maybe we Goldsteins are late bloomers, only reaching full blossom in retirement. It’s early to say, but right now forty is like beginning the second half of a twelve-inch sub: during the first half, you feel like you have all the sandwich in the world, like there will never be a time where you aren’t cramming sandwich into your face; but then comes the second half and the end is in sight. If it was a good sandwich, by the last bite you’ll want to undo the top button of your pants and lie down. Hopefully in a good way.

  After removing the eggs from the water, I remember to turn off the stopwatch. I sit down with my father and with toast, coffee, and orange juice, we enjoy our eggs.

  Afterword

  by Gregor Erhlich, ex-agent to the star

  Having now skimmed the book you hold in your hands, I realize that this should have been the foreword. A foreword was where I could have said, “Before you read this book: PLEASE, READ THIS WARNING!”

  Now it’s too late.

  Jonathan Goldstein is a liar. And that he is a liar needed
to be said first. It needed to be said second, third, and fourth. Why? Because it bears repeating. The stuff in this book is conjecture, half-truths that Goldstein twisted into viscous, colourful balloon animals filled with gassy mendacity.

  We are talking about my friend here, so I’m not going to come out and say that Goldstein is an evil man with an evil core. Though likely it is evil smelling. I am picturing a custard-like, greyish brown substance that emits a high-pitched whining noise when subjected to the scrutiny of sunlight. I’m just saying he has trouble with reality. Anyone who’s ever been a passenger while he’s driving can attest to that.

  And as for you others out there who think Goldstein’s some grand Canadian absurdist with a Victorian birdcage full of bon mots printed on index cards, you are mistaken. Truth is, he’s only half Canadian. A dual citizen. I’d say that’s reason enough not to trust him right there. I mean, come on. Choose a country. I did. U.S.A. all the way.You probably chose your home team, too. But not Goldstein. Goldstein likes to play both sides of the border.

  Still want proof of his deceit? I present to you evidence from his own book! Exhibit A:

  Gregor visits me at my office.

  “What’s this?” he asks, pointing to the large yoga ball under my desk.

  Okay, let’s stop right there. I know what a yoga ball is. I’ve been familiar with yoga since before it was Upanishadic. And I know my way around Kundalini, Iyengar, and Bikram, and have read the Yoga Yajnavalkya.

  Want more? Here’s more:

  “A yoga ball is the rare object that can boast having had buttocks pressed against every millimetre of its surface.The sphere, my friend. Nature’s perfect cootie catcher.”

  Why would I mention “buttocks pressed against every millimetre” when, as noted earlier, I am a one hundred percent, apple pie–eating, missile-firing U.S.A. citizen? I don’t say millimeter, and certainly not millimetre. I say foot, pound, and inch. And any mention of the fourthousand-dollar Bruno Magli shoes I was wearing? The one-thousand-and-ninety-dollar aftershave? I hardly recognize myself! We continue, back into his dank cabinet of dissemblance: