Of (Potential) Death, Taxes and Human Bondage. Er, bonding.

 

When the telephone rings, it’s just before seven o’clock and I feel like I only just fell asleep.  The too-bright voice on the other end says he’ll be there to pick me up in half an hour.  For god’s sake, I complain, I’m…Still in bed?  he asks.  No problem, I’ll give you five minutes more.

I creep downstairs to unlock the front door and turn on the porch light.  The sky is dark – not a glimmer of natural light – and I marvel at the newfound habits of the Youngest Son, who has become such an early riser that he can sound cheerful before dawn.  I shower and dress quietly, but the sound of the hair dryer is harder to muffle.  MFB slumbers on, and only mutters indistinctly as I whisper goodbye.  

He’s there, bang on time, waiting outside in a borrowed car he wishes was his.  We accelerate away from the house, down the darkened streets empty of traffic toward the city centre and the bowels of an underground garage.  Walking along the deserted sidewalks – his wounded knee slowing our usual pace – I look up to the brightening sky and exclaim for having left my camera behind.  The cell phone will have to do.   

The Marriot Hotel serves a breakfast buffet every morning from seven ‘til nine-thirty, and he’s been wanting to go for weeks.  There are only a few occupied tables, but enough food to feed a full sitting.  Conspicuous waste, but we’ll do our best to reduce what’s thrown out.  Three eggs Benedict for him, and one less for me.  Pancakes.  Croissants.  Peeled orange slices with the pith removed.  Whose job is that?  Strong coffee.  Fresh orange juice.  Conversation - about cars, about the havoc  illicit drugs wreak on a brain, about plans for the future.  Then dogs, brothers, travel and the stupid things people do with laser pointers.  It’s definitely worth getting up this early. 

Replete, we head for the big stores to look for his new pants, a belated Christmas present.  But there’s nothing his size, or rather nothing that both fits him and satisfies his need for minimal care.  Won’t buy anything that has to be dry-cleaned.  Back to the car, but at the garage exit the barrier won’t go up.  Next time I won’t fold the ticket, he says, and tries again.  Nothing doing.  Aw, let’s just steal parking, he says.  We’ll just wait for another car to leave and follow close behind.  Not a chance, I say, and go off in search of help.   

Can’t find anyone on this unnaturally quiet weekday morning, four days after Christmas.  Then a horn blares behind me, and he’s gone and done it anyway.  Ridden on somebody else’s tail and scooted under the raised gate after they paid to exit.  Principles are flexible, I find.  Nobody’s there to help me be honest, so if the only way to get out is to steal, I guess I’m OK with that. 

Another mall, another store.  Two pair of pants that are both long enough and washable enough to suit.  He feels bad about not buying the shoes that are a tad too small: he feels sorry for the salesman.  My eyes roll slightly.  You should know better – you’re a salesman yourself, I tell him.  Yeah, well, that’s why I feel sorry for him. 

Another mall, another score.  On-sale shoes in size 14.  Half-price jeans in a 36-inch leg – for me, too.    He throws his arm around my shoulder and gives me a big, lingering squeeze. Two things I wished for my kids to be were readers and huggers.   Not all of them are both of those things, but they’re all affectionate.  Lucky me.  He drops me off at home and in return I drop a bag full of clean clothes through the sunroof.  Laundry in exchange for a morning’s worth of hanging out sounds like a pretty good deal to me.  

Unannounced, a big backhoe arrives a few minutes later and stops in front of my house.  As MFB and I watch from our front-row seats, it is unloaded and driven across the sidewalk and up the front lawn of the house directly opposite.  After a few minutes of suspense, the bucket is raised and with a delicate tap, demolishes the west wall of the house. 

The driver who delivered the thing stands on the sidewalk watching, and when I jokingly ask if the gas line was turned off first, says: we never check.  I laugh.  You’re kidding.  Nope, we never do, he says.    Thirty seconds later I get a big whiff of natural gas.  Smell that? I ask.  A mild look of consternation crosses his face and he starts off in the direction of the backhoe.  I beat a retreat into my house to call 911, wondering if this is an overreaction but preferring that to being blown to smithereens.

 

In less than three minutes a big red fire truck pulls up at the end of the street.  (Living in a city has its advantages.) When I identify myself to the responders they invite me into the truck and you don’t have to be a kid to get a thrill out of that.  What did you smell?  For how long? How strong was it ?  No, don’t apologize for calling us – we’d rather be safe than sorry – and no, we don’t think your fertile imagination had anything to do with it  

I want a picture of the inside of the truck but don’t want to look like I’m one of those fire-setters who get their kicks from crying wolf.  A few minutes later the advance men radio back to the truck that they have no indication of errant gas, that all demolition permits are in order, and that they believe it’s safe to leave the area.  The explanation I had already thought of is offered by one of them : residual gas escaping a pipe ruptured by the backhoe almost certainly accounted for the smell.  They’re satisfied that  the supply had already been turned off before the first strike. 

Sheepishly, I ask for a photo.  Because my admiration for people who put themselves at risk for others is boundless, and because I want to put you up on my blog.  Tell your city counsellor instead, they laugh, but happily line up for me.  They want to know what kind of a blog it is and can they look at it? What do I write about?  Oh, everything, I say.  Travel.  Adventure.  Human beings.  They seem impressed.  For heaven’s sake, they’re the ones who put themselves in the line of…fire.  Somebody fishes out a pen and tells me to write the blog name on his partner’s forehead. 

 

 

On the way back to No. 15 Fire Station, the guy riding shotgun gives me The Royal Wave. For you, Mr. Fireman, and all your buddies everywhere, I’ll pay my taxes without a peep.  And just let me know where I can get your New Year’s calendar, would you?