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###
Shadow of the Mothaship
=======================
It's the untethering of my parents' house that's on my plate today. The flying
of a kite on a windy Toronto Hallowe'en day and the suspension of worry for a
shiny moment.
And sail surface isn't even a problemette when it comes to my parents' home --
the thing is a three-storey bat whose narrow wings contain the trolleycar-shaped
bedrooms and storages. Mum and Dad built it themselves while I tottered in the
driveway, sucking a filthy shred of blanket, and as I contemplate it today with
hands on hips from the front yard, I am there on that day:
Dad is nailgunning strips of plywood into a frame, Mum stands where I am now,
hands on her hips (and I take my hands from my hips hastily, shove them deep in
pockets). She squints and shouts directions. Then they both grab rolls of scrim
and stapleguns and stretch it loosely across the frames, and fast-bond pipes and
prefab fixtures into place. Mum harnesses up the big tanks of foam and aims the
blower at the scrim, giving it five fat coats, then she drops the blower and she
and Dad grab spatulas and tease zillions of curlicues and baroque stuccoes from
the surface, painting it with catsup, chutney, good whiskey and bad wine, a
massive canvas covered by centimetres until they declare it ready and Mum
switches tanks, loads up with fix-bath and mists it with the salty spray. Ten
minutes later, and the house is hard and they get to work unloading the U-Haul
in the drive.
And now I'm twenty-two again, and I will untether that house and fly it in the
stiff breeze that ruffles my hair affectionately.
#
Firstly and most foremost, I need to wait for the man. I hate to wait. But today
it's waiting and harsh and dull, dull, dull.
So I wait for the man, Stude the Dude and the gentle clip-clop of Tilly's hooves
on the traction-nubbed foam of my Chestnut Ave.
My nose is pressed against the window in the bat's crotch, fingers dug into the
hump of fatty foam that runs around its perimeter, fog patches covering the rime
of ground-in filth that I've allowed to accumulate on my parents' spotless
windows.
Where the frick is Stude?
#
The man has cometh. Clop-clip, clip-clop, Stude the Dude, as long as a dangling
booger, and his clapped-out nag Tilly, and the big foam cart with its stacks of
crates and barrels and boxes, ready to do the deal.
"Maxes!" he says, and I *know* I'm getting taken today -- he looks genuinely
glad to see me.
"Stude, nice day, how's it?" I say, as cas and cool as I can, which isn't, very.
"Fine day! Straight up fine day to be alive and awaiting judgment!" He
power-chugs from the perpetual coffee thermos at his side.
"Fine day," I echo.
"Fine, fine day." Like he's not in any hurry to get down to the deal, and I know
it's a contest, and the first one to wheel gets taken.
I snort and go "Yuh-huh." It's almost cheating, since I should've had something
else nice to say, but Stude gives me a conversational Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free.
"Good night to tricky treat."