Read I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow Online
Authors: Jonathan Goldstein
I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow (3 page)
As I scan the apartment for potential garbageâwaterlogged stacks of business cards, empty CD cases, notebooks full of ideas I'll never realizeâeverything becomes bathed in the aura of trash.
I've always wanted to feel like my life was rife with potential, but now, as the garbage truck outside grows louder, it only feels rife with potential garbage.
Survival of the Fittest
(49 weeks)
SUNDAY.
I'm taking my father shopping for a TV. As we leave his house, he says goodbye to his new dog, Boosh, short for Babushka. Although he calls her his “rescue poodle,” it seems too Super Heroic a name for a dog that spends twenty-three hours of the day sleeping, and the remaining hour eating venison dog food and being cuddled.
My father hands her over to me.
“Say goodbye to your sister,” he says. Calling Boosh my sister is my father's new favourite joke. I don't know how my human sister feels about having a new dog sibling, or my mother feels about having a new dog daughter, but personally, I'm not loving it. My new sister growls in my face and I hand her back.
“Doesn't she do any tricks?” I ask in the car. “Anything to earn her keep?”
“The SPCA didn't know much about her previous owners,” he says, “but I'm learning of her talents all the time. Like the other day, I was arguing with your mother ⦔
“About what?” I ask.
“She has a habit of handing me peeled bananas, and it drives me nuts. You can't refuse a banana that's already been peeled.”
“Why not?”
“It just isn't done,” he says. “So I might be in the middle of shellacking a bookcase or shovelling snow when all of a sudden, there's the banana. I have to drop everything and start eating before it goes black. It's very manipulative. Anyway, in the middle of the yelling, Boosh started yipping!”
“Talented,” I say.
“All rescue dogs have a talent,” he says. “For staying alive.”
“At any rate they're lucky,” I say.
Maybe we all are. Each of us evolved from the sperm that made itâthat beat out the millions of othersâand for that, we're all at least sort of lucky. And we're all, if maybe only occasionally, seized with a bit of that “I'm lucky to be alive” feeling. Maybe even dogs are.
TUESDAY.
At work, my producer, Mira, informs me that fat raccoons are taking over Mount Royal.
“They really know how to play an audience for handouts, too,” she says. “When they see you walking by, they start scooping water with their paws and look up at you all cute. But I can see through them.”
I believe this statement says more about Mira than it does about the raccoons on Mount Royal.
WEDNESDAY.
I get a new picture taken for my security card at work. When I sit down to pose for it, I decide that, in spite of the bad day I'm having, I'm going to make an effort to smile. The picture is snapped and I'm handed my pass.
There isn't a trace of a smile. I look like mug-shot Nick Nolte, but without the hair or charisma. There's a definite gulf between what I think I'm putting out into the world and what I actually am. If I was a raccoon, or even a dog looking for a home, I'd have died of starvation by now.
But lucky for me, I've got money. I decide to take a walk to the coffee shop near my office for a cookie and coffee, and I pay for it with two toonies. The clerk takes them and holds one in each hand.
“This one feels heavier,” she says, holding up her left hand.
I ask for the coins back, to see for myself. The smallest unit of weight I'm able to think in terms of is the Quarter Pounderâ¢. When considering how much my father's toy
poodle weighs, I think “twenty Quarter Pounders” and from there convert into imperial units.
“I can't tell the difference,” I say. “Perhaps you have a hidden talent.”
She smiles. Everyone has a hidden talent for something. The lucky ones discover theirs before it's too late.Would it be more sad or less sad to go through life never discovering you can fly, or discovering it only a minute before dying? I guess it would really allow for a beautiful deathâan old man flying out the window after a long life.
I take my coffee, sip it, and wonder how many coffees I've left to go.
THURSDAY.
I'm with Helen and Katie, auditioning a story I've written for my radio show. In the middle of my reading, Marie-Claude enters the room and sends them outside to play.
“What wrong with you?” she asks. “Why are you reading my children a story about death?”
“It's existential,” I say. “Plus, they asked me to read it.”
“My nine- and seven-year-old said, âPlease, Uncle Jonny, favour us with a story about death'? Are you insane?”
“As their godfather, I have a responsibility to offer lessons in spiritual hygiene.”
“You? Hygiene? Helen says you told her that when you were her age you only bathed once a week.”
“I wanted her to know that everyone is different,” I
say. “That's why there are career aptitude tests. The kids who bathe every day will be more inclined towards work in the public sectorâmaking pastries and giving tours of model homes; while the once-a-week kids might be more comfortable hoboing, bohoing, or radio showâhosting. And in this way, we maintain a balance.”
Marie-Claude does not buy my version of a just society, and throws me out of her house.
SEIZING THE DAY
There once was a man named Chalchas the Greek. When he was only a young lad, Chalchas learned that he would one day die.
“It happens to all of us,” his father said. “It's just the way things go.”
The boy was surprised by the news. Sure, his father would die. Yes, his mother and even his brothers and sister would die. His grandfather had already died, as had the heroes he learned about at school. This all made sense to him. But that he, Chalchas the Greek, would die? No, there had to be a glitch in there somewhere.
Though it didn't make sense to his heart, he knew it to be true intellectually, and so each morning Chalchas awoke and thought, “Today could be the day I die.”
On some days, he was struck with the thought several hundred times. It became impossible to focus on anything else. Back then, there were no psychiatrists or therapists, so Chalchas went to see an oracle.
The old oracle lived in the forest, on the outskirts of town. It was a full day's journey there, and when Chalchas found him, he was sitting in the shade of a large tree, staring up at the sky with wide-open eyes. Chalchas wasted no time in getting to the point.
“I want to know when I'll die,” he said.
Chalchas figured that if he could just know how much time he had left, he could relax. A man only died once, but the way he was worrying, it felt like he was going through the motions of dying every day.
After a few attempts at dissuading him, the oracle acquiesced, revealing to Chalchas the precise day upon which his death would arrive. It was a pretty far-off day, though perhaps not as far off as Chalchas would have liked. If he was honest with himself, he was in fact hoping the oracle would consult his great book of death and, flipping back and forth between pages, finally utter, “That's odd. I have no listing here for Chalchas the Greek. It would seem you do not die. How weird is that?”
And so the days passed and the day of Chalchas's death grew nearer just as the day of all of our deaths
draws nearer. Except Chalchas was able to count down to his. Each morning he would awake and think, “2764 to go. 1873. 922.”
As the days dwindled, what once felt like a vast number of daysâan oceanâslowly became a paltry year. And then that paltry year became a few skeletal months, and then, what felt like very suddenly, those months turned into weeks and when they did, Chalchas took to himself. He wanted to be alone in his final days to really cherish each second without distraction.
“I've only a few days to go,” he'd say in a sweat.
And then the day arrived. By now Chalchas was an old man, but mostly he felt okay, no major pains or issues. So when he awoke he looked around, took a few breaths, waited, and then, realizing he was still alive, Chalchas the Greek began to laugh.
“Ha ha,” he chortled. “Hee hee.”
So great was his merriment over having fooled the fates that Chalchas threw his arms up in the air and executed a jig.
“Hardee har. Hoo hoo ha hee hee hee. How absurd to have worried!” he exclaimed through his laughter. “What do oracles know?” Oracle! The very word was ridiculous and enough to make him twice as giggly.
No longer able to contain himself, Chalchas fell
to the ground and pounded the earth with all his might. He laughed and laughed and punched and punched until his fists failed to clench, his lungs ceased to inflate, his throat could produce no sound, and his mind became free of all things, even thoughts of his own death.
Atonement
(48 weeks)
WEDNESDAY.
The evening finds me squatting in front of a gumball machine, cursing. In want of one more treat before beginning the Yom Kippur fast, I've inserted a quarter and nothing's happened. As much as I assure myself that my outrage is not about the money but about the broken social compact, I still cannot help feeling that bear-hugging a gumball machine on my knees might actually be the first thing I've discovered in quite some time to truly be beneath my dignity.
Who would be the perfect person to walk by at this moment? An old schoolteacher who never thought I'd amount to much? An ex-girlfriend's father who could never stand my guts?
When I was a kid, my parents had a needlepoint of Moses. In it, he's giving the commandments to the children
of Israel. Despite many important moments in Moses's life, that one is probably the signature one. I can't help thinking that wrestling this gumball machine might be mine.
And as I continue to work, my finger up the gum hole, I cannot help imagining what this would look like as a needlepoint.
THURSDAY, 2:00 A.M.
I lie awake, hungry and thinking about God. I wonder: Am I a good enough person to get into Heaven? How does it all get tallied up anyway? Is my love of processed meat counterbalanced by the fastidious recycling of my scotch bottles? In gas stations and convenience stores, I take a penny more often than I leave a penny, but I am a more than generous tipperâeven in buffet-type situations.
3:45 A.M.
For all we know about the workings of the universe, entry into Heaven might depend solely on shoe size. Nines go to hell and elevens go to Heaven, where their snowshoe-like feet are able to tromp atop clouds without falling through.
I am reminded of Grushenka in
The Brothers Karamazov,
who thinks she'll be saved because she once gave a peasant an onion. All it takes is a single pure deed, she believes. I wish I had her confidence.
4:30 A.M.
I've always held on to the irrational hope that in my final days I might suddenly transform into one of those Zorba-the-Greek kind of guys. I wonder if you can spend your whole life never coming ten thousand miles within seizing the day and then finally, at the last minute, turn it all around and redeem everything. In my final hours, I want to wander into the backyard in my deathbed bathrobe and, despite everything left undoneâthe European vacations, the Ski-Doo rides over the tundraâspread out my arms and do one of those life-embracing Zorba dances.
“Look at the big dancing phony,” God will probably say, watching in Heaven. “It's going to take more than showmanship to get into paradise on my watch.”
4:45 A.M.
Fasting does funny things to a man's faith. An inner dialogue takes place in which you argue for and against the existence of God based solely on how in the mood you are for a muffin and coffee.
What if Henry Heimlich Were Choking?
(47 weeks)
SUNDAY.
I'm over at Tucker's. He's just gotten a sandwich press and has been spending the day inventing new sandwiches. He's working on a dessert sandwich called the Lew Wasserman Special. It's made of Rice Krispies, marshmallows, cocoa, and candy sprinkles.
“Ever notice how people keep candy sprinkles in their spice rack?” Tucker asks, applying his body weight to the press. “Since when are candy sprinkles a spice?”
“Since the time brave European explorers set out along trade routes in search of new ways to decorate their cupcakes.”
“It's a mockery of the whole concept of spice!”
“Speaking of spice,” I say, “what do you think your Spice Girl name would be? Angry Spice?”
“I don't have a Spice Girl name. I have a fighting name: The Gefilte Fist.What's your Spice Girl name?”
“Paprika.”
Gefilte and paprika go well together, just like Tucker and me and, I'm hoping, marshmallows and sandwich bread.
MONDAY.
With flu season upon us, so as not to be expected to shake hands or turn doorknobs, I've taken to walking the halls of my office with a cup of coffee in each hand. As a result, I am keeping twice as caffeinated. And twice as sweaty and shaky. By the end of the day, my clothes are drenched in spilled coffee and perspiration.
