Chump Change (9 page)

“Yes. Listen, Dad, can I explain about it in person? Say over lunch?”

Another pause.

“That would be fi-ine,” Dad says, with a special downward glissando on the last word that I know means: I have agreed to have lunch with you, and implicit in this arrangement is the understanding that I, as the sire, will
ipso facto
pick up the tab; however, this in no way binds or entangles me in any other financial obligations, and any such pecuniary assumptions on your part are hereby declared null and void.

We agreed on a Chinese restaurant near his office, Phat Ho’s. He suggested a time, I asked for a slightly later one, explaining I was “on foot,” and therefore it would take me a while to get there. If he caught the hint, that I was flat-footing it because I was flat broke, he gave no sign, merely levelly agreeing to the later time.

Lunch was a mostly silent affair. My father’s not a big conversationalist in the first place, and my sudden return to T.O. was not exactly calculated to inspire him to new heights of loquacity and oratorio. He asked me a few laconic questions off the top, all related to my employment prospects, then we lapsed into a heavy silence, from soup to nuts, i.e., from hot & sour to almond cookie.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t have to say anything, really: I could read between the lines, between the furrows of sorrow etched deep in his cable-knit brow.

Yes, I read my message there, and it said: “Get a job, Dave. A
full-time
job, get it yesterday, and don’t even think about borrowing money from me.”

Several times during the lunch, I opened my mouth to ask about borrowing some money, but the words just dried on my lips. I don’t want to get too mystical here, but my father, when he senses the touch is coming, is actually able to enwrap
himself in a magical forcefield that makes it impossible to broach the ticklish subject of cash. Even when the bill came, and Dad hauled out his fat, double-the-normal-size tourist wallet, bristling with credit cards, bills of a dozen currencies, chits, uncashed cheques, I.O.U.s, bills of lading, coupons, promissory notes; even then, when I heard choirs of heavenly angels singing “HA-LE-LU-YA! HA-LE-LU-YA! HIT-HIM-UP-NOW, HIT-HIM-UP-NOW, HI-IT HI-IM UP NOW!” and little shoulder-devils whispering in my ear, “C’mon, Dave, just a C-note, he’ll never miss it, think of all the delicious lunches you can buy for yourself;” even then, I sat silent as a stump, cursing my cowardice, gnashing on my lunch.

At least, I
think
I heard heavenly choirs and devilish whispers. It may have been all the M.S.G. they put in the food at Phat Ho’s.

Dad paid, and we left. Outside, he shook my hand, wished me luck, and lumbered off to his office to earn more dough.

As I walked through Chinatown with my hands in my pockets, I was overcome with a wave of bitterness and self-pity. Dad hadn’t even bothered to inquire where I was staying. For all he knew, I could be living in a bank machine, or on a steam grate.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame the old man, on the contrary, I blame myself. How else was he supposed to feel? In my teens, I cursed and condemned him as a vile bourgeois and materialist. Then, in my 20s, I racked up an enormous tab getting two Master’s degrees. Now, after a year and a half in the work force I was back, with my tail between my legs. No wonder he was disappointed in me. I would be too, if I were my son.

I’m a late bloomer, Dad, I wanted to say to him. And it’s not just me — we’re a whole generation of late-bloomers.

At least, we hope we are…

When he was my age, my father was already a homeowner, the father of three children, well-established in his profession. But things were easier back then. You just rolled off a log and into a profession. Can we help you, sir? Yes, please, could you show me the way to the top? Certainly, sir. Right this way…

Things are tougher now, though, much dicier. When I took the job at
Newsweek
, Dad was cautiously optimistic (to use a hackneyed journalistic phrase). “Well, at least it’s a foot in the door,” he said, when I told him about it over the phone.

Finally, though, Dad, I had to pull my foot out. It was starting to hurt.

Next step: hit up Mom. An even more difficult and guilt-fraught proposition. She’d spot me a bit of cash, I knew, but there were always strings attached. And, attached to the strings, little golden advice-balls, usually something along the lines of: “Why don’t you go back to school and get your Ph.D? Your father has a really cushy life, he only works three days a week.”

Also, the sums she lent me were always so unrealistically small. It’s not that Mom’s stingy, she’s very generous, the most generous person I know. But she grew up on a farm, in Blooming Prairie, Minn. (pop. 500), where they grew their own vegetables, had their own livestock, including dairy cattle, went into “town” maybe once every other month, and then spent $40 for a family of eleven. Now, though she’s spent her entire adult life in major urban centres, she’s somehow retained her countrified cash-ethos.

To tell the truth, I hated even asking her. Mom has a big house, but a big double-mortgage too, and though she’s nearing 60, she busts her hump as a night-nurse at Toronto General Hospital to make ends meet. She could’ve been a head nurse by
now, but she took a 20-year hiatus from the profession — if you can call raising children a “hiatus.”

On the other hand, I needed cash on the double. I quashed my qualms, swallowed my pride, stepped into a phone booth, and gave my old lady a tinkle.

Unlike Dad, Mom sounds pleased to hear from me. The only sorrow she expresses is over the demise of my relationship with Ruth.

“I really liked her. But then,” she adds, with a girlish chuckle, “I liked them all. Except that one, what was her name?”

“Holly.”

“Right. Holly. I wasn’t crazy about her.”

“To be honest, I wasn’t either, Mom. But she was so sexy, I couldn’t help myself. I was drawn to her.”

“Oh, dear. Well, what else is new with you?”

“Can I tell you about it in person? You want to get together?”

“Sure. Why don’t you come over here?”

Walking to the Henry family seat was another form of backwards time-travel. First, up through the campus, which sparked numerous memories of the year I crashed on my mother’s couch and got my first Master’s degree. The year after she broke up with Dad.

My father had a textbook mid-life crisis. His whole life sometimes seemed to be taken up with errands and paperwork: doing taxes, taking the car to the garage, phoning the dentist, you name it. Then suddenly, one day, he turned 50. That’s how it goes in this life: you blink and you’re 30; you cough and you’re 40; you sneeze and you’re 50. “I could be dead in 20 years,” he said to himself. “And I’ll be old the whole time until then.” Like many people who turn 50, he asked himself: “Is this it?

When does the fun begin?” After that, it was the Grecian formula, expensive clothes, dinners, the sports cars — at one point he owned five cars — and finally the secretary 15 years his junior.

I understood perfectly. And to understand all is to forgive all, as Madame de Stael says. Still, it was a tough year for my mother: she cried every night at the same time. At about 5:15 she would retreat into her room, then emerge at 5:45 with red-rimmed eyes and ask what I wanted for dinner.

I cut through Taddle Creek Park, which reminded me of all the times, as a teenager, stumbling home in a drunken/stoned haze, dunking my head in the fountain to straighten up before facing my parents. Brilliant, eh? If
your
teenage son came home babbling like a maniac, eyes the size of basketballs, hair dripping wet, I’ll bet you’d never suspect a thing.

Then up along beautiful tree-canopied Admiral Road, street of my youth. Lord, more memories: after one unauthorized party too many (when the parents left for the weekend, they insisted I hand over my keys and stay with a friend, but I had a copy made at the hardware store), Mom kicked me out, and as I walked along with a suitcase in either hand, tears streaming down my cheeks, who should I bump into but Max? He put me up until my mother phoned, two days later, and said I could come back.

My brother opens the door to the family seat. He’s a bit of a dandy himself, though his taste is more collegiate — argyle socks and sweaters. His coif has a windswept, tempest-tossed look, although, impregnated as it is with gels, mousses, sprays, lacquers and fixatifs, no
actual
breeze, not even a gale, could ever ruffle one of his feathered locks.

He lounges, smirking, in the doorway.

“Here to borrow some money?” he asks, after a bit of preliminary chit-chat.

Being a “boomerang boy” and basement dweller doesn’t stop him from adopting a superior moral tone with yours truly at all times.

“None of your business. Where’s Mom?”

“She’s getting dressed. You woke her up. She works late, you know.”

“I know. Just go get her.”

He vanishes into the bowels of the house, while I pace back and forth on the porch, smoking and fuming. Little brat, I think: where does he get off talking to me like that? Whatever happened to respect for your elders? And don’t forget, I can still beat the fucking shit out of you, kiddo.

In a few minutes Mom comes trundling out into the foyer. She looks older, she moves more slowly: these observations fill me with inexpressible sadness. Little apron-string boy helps her on with her coat. The door is slightly ajar, and I hear him whisper to her: “If he tries to borrow any money, don’t give it to him.”

Mom comes out, a sensible scarf wrapped around her neck, even though it’s quite warm out. We embrace, then she steps back and looks me over.

“Oh, dear, you’ve become quite heavy, haven’t you?”

“I didn’t get a lot of exercise in New York, Mom. I was bored at my job, and I ate a lot of junk food at my desk, at work.”

As usual, her first thought is: my son is here, what can I give him?

“Do you need a bicycle? I have an old bicycle of your father’s in the garage. It’s a Raleigh!”

She reaches behind the door-jamb and presses a button. The garage door starts to open.

“Thanks, Mom, I would love a bike, it’s just what I need. Could I pick it up on the way back?”

“O.K.” She touches the button again, the door rumbles closed.

We head down the beautiful tree-canopied street. Mom, stiff-jointed, walks slowly, her arm slipped through mine.

“So, how are you doing?” she asks me after a while.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve pretty much hit rock bottom, Mom. At least, I hope this is rock bottom.”

“Oh, dear. Well, do you know what you’re going to do now?”

“I’m not quite sure, yet. I think I’m going to give writing a go of it.”

“Have you ever thought of going back to school and getting your Ph.D?”

“Mom—”

“Your father has it pretty good, you know. He only works two or three days a week, and he has his summers completely off. He has so much free time. He never knew what to do with himself, really.”

This last statement seems to be mostly to herself.

“Mom, I can’t go back to grad school. I just couldn’t stand the bullshit any more. Everyone sitting around talking about literature in this phoney-baloney mumbo-jumbo insider’s lingo.”

“Well…alright, but you don’t have to use that kind of language, you know.”

“What? Oh, sorry.”

“It’s just laziness. You say you want to be a writer, but when you use that sort of language, it just shows you’re too lazy to find the right word.”

“You may be right, Mom, but in this case I honestly think it was the best word for the situation.”

We walk awhile in silence, then finally she asks: “How are you fixed for money?”

“Funny you should ask,” I say, and laugh — a laugh with quite a bit of wince in it.

“Well, I’m prepared to lend you some. You know I always like to support the arts. But there is one condition.”

“What is it?”

“You have to write the IRS about that cheque.”

What? Oh, that. Man, I couldn’t believe the things that stuck in her belfry sometimes. When I was living in New York, someone ripped off my tax-return cheque (400-odd bucks) out of the mailbox. I wrote the IRS about it, they wrote back saying, quite reasonably, I felt, they issued the cheque, it had been cashed, it wasn’t their problem. They even included a photocopy of the cashed cheque. It was signed “Henry David.” That really burned me. In New York I could only cash my pay-cheques at one branch of one bank in the entire city, and then only with my
Newsweek
employee card and one other piece of I.D. But some crook could cash my tax-return with no I.D.
even though he signed my name backwards
.

“Mom, I’ll never get that money back.”

“Well, that’s my condition.”

“O.K. O.K. I’ll do it.”

“Alright, here you go.” She reaches into her purse, and pulls out two crisp $20s. “Try to make it last, though, will you?”

Yeah, right, Mom, I thought, pedalling off. That ought to last about an hour.

In the end though, I made that cash last quite a while. I decided to drop in at the
Burnished Monocle
, right around the corner from my mother’s place. Say hi to Nan, maybe get another writing gig. Mix, mingle, show my face anywhere it was welcome, try to make a good impression. These days, everyone has to do their own PR. I had to get the word out: David Henry’s back! And try to put a positive spin on it all.

The
Burnished Monocle
is the name of both magazine and bar; the magazine’s offices are located on the second floor, up a spiral staircase at the back of the building. Outside, carved in the step, a quote from Dr. Johnson: “There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or inn.” Inside, on the clock, another quote: “The hours of folly are measured by the clock; of wisdom, no clock can measure.” Kind of contradictory quotations, when you think about it. One invites you in, the other mocks you for staying.

The bar itself is a typical (for Toronto) neo-colonial affair which tries to emulate the atmosphere of a British pub, right down to the menu, which features such delicacies as “bangers & mash,” “toad-in-the-hole,” and “rare dunking.” Which is taking
it all a bit far, in my opinion. I mean, I can understand Anglophilic nostalgia for the cabs, clubs, eccentrics, lifts, lorries, brollies, Wellies, and all that. But why anyone would go to the trouble to actually import British cuisine (the ultimate oxymoron) is beyond me.