Chapter Eleven
THE DEAL

I really believe Sporty had pretended he could not recognize me that day at the Union Station through shame, not his busyness or all his appointments, as he later claimed. But that was Sporty: always pretending, always putting up a big show, always claiming to have some secret in his back pocket. Most Mayaro people got their nicknames from the other villagers but Sporty was the only person who chose his own. I believe it was because everyone called him Homo to suit his last name which was Sapienza. He never answered to the Homo name and after a while he would say, “Hello, you loo-looking for Sporty?” He used to live about ten minutes from my mother’s house in Mayaro, in a half-completed teak shack with no windows or doors, right behind Mrs. Bango parlour. When he disappeared from the village, everyone said that he had moved to San Fernando to fleece the rich city folks or had landed in Carrera, the offshore prison.

When I saw him at Union, his face was thinner and he now wore a wild, ownway goatee but he still had the habit of holding his head upwards as if he was better than anyone around him. From this angle, his nostrils seemed to fill out his entire face. His legs were folded just like when he used to sit on the steps of his teak house with his face sunk into his Kid Colt or Rawhide Kid comic book. I was about eleven or so, the age at which my mother had given me the responsibility to buy from Mrs. Bango’s parlour, tins of condensed milk or bars of blue carbolic soap or other small items she needed in a hurry.

I believe he lived alone because I never saw anyone else in the house, and he was always by himself, reading his westerns. He must have been about thirty then, and in Mayaro, where all the other men were either in fishing boats or in their gardens, Sporty’s idleness made everybody suspicious. I remember my mother, after she had heard from the village grapevine that I had been chatting with him, warning me over and over about “idle, good-for-nothing scamps with big useless heads.” But it was just about the time I had started to read the Mandrake and Phantom comics from The Guardian, and Sporty always had a big pile of comics on the steps. I think he must have noticed me staring because whenever I was around, he would dig into his pile and sort and rearrange, which made me even more curious. The first words he ever spoke to me were, “Pardnah, these things cost mm-money, you know.” It sounded like a threat so I ran off, but the next day, he added, “Two for a doll-a dollar.”

“So cheap?” I had asked.

“That is why it will cost you just a sh-shilling for a read.”

In my hands were a bar of squishy salted butter and seventy cents change. I hesitated for a while; I always placed the loose change in the cracked teapot next to my mother’s Singer and I had never seen her counting the money I brought back from the parlour. “What you have?”

Tex-tex-as Rangers. Two Gun Kid. Cherokee Kid. Jonah Hex.”

“Only westerns? No Mandrake and Phantom?”

“Real men only wear costumes ‘round car-carnival time, pardnah. Just one sh-shilling. But nobody forcing you.”

It took a week before I walked over and held out my twenty-five cents. “Put it on the st-step.” He didn’t look at me but delved into his pile and brought up a comic. “Bill-Billy the Kid,” he told me. “And be careful with it, please. Wipe your hands, and don’t bend back the pa-pages.”

I remember the comic being senseless. No one wore costumes like Phantom or had magical powers like Mandrake but Sporty was nodding and making little laughs and saying “Qui pappa! That is man,” and somehow not stammering at all. When I was finished, he asked what I thought.

“It real boring. Just gun-talk and badjohn business.”

“You still not getting back your sh-shilling.”

I decided to leave him alone but a couple weeks later he called out to me, “Pardnah, I think you might like this one. I get it a few days ago in a sp-special deal.”

“How much?”

“The price didn’t change.”

“I only have fifteen cents.”

“I will let you read ha-half.”

“What good that will do?”

“You could choose your own ha-half. The beginning or the ending. Is no different from the comics in The Guardian where you have to wait mm-months on end to reach the conclusion of the st-story.”

That was true; still, I didn’t want to waste any money on half of a boring comic. I told him that.

“Okay, I will make you a deal. I will tell you the rest of the st-story myself. The other ha-half.”

“Same fifteen cents?”

“Anything mm-more, I will consider a donation.”

I knew he was not going to squeeze any more money from me so I walked over reluctantly. As I expected it was boring just like the others. A dusty-looking man sitting by himself in a saloon, challenged he could draw his gun faster than the regular crowd, walked outside with his legs far apart and scattered several gunslingers hidden behind water troughs. When I reached the stapled halfway point, I gave him the money and the comic. He closed it and pretended he was studying the advertisement for X-ray glasses on the back cover. Because he didn’t say anything and I felt he would not fulfil his side of the bargain, I asked him, “What happen after the fight?”

“Exactly what you would ex-expect.”

“I didn’t expect anything. What happened?”

“He became an owlhoot, Pardnah. Moving from one fra-fracas to the other. An inn-innocent and misunderstood hombre on the run. Until a band of Indians ta-take him in.” His voice seemed so sad that I didn’t pay much attention to his new accent. “But it had this posse of bounty hunters tracking him all the time. There was a big sh-shootout in the end.”

“And?”

“He sent all those miserable varmints straight to Boot Hill. Pow! Pow! Badow! They fall like pe-pe-peas. But he had to mm-move on.”

“That is all? It sound exactly like all the others.”

“You think so?” He seemed to be speaking to himself so I said nothing. “That is the way life is. Innocent and misunderstood men always have to be on the mm-move. They always have to keep one step ahead of the mob-ob who will string them up at the slightest opportunity.”

I told him, “I have to get going now.”

“You interested in a sp-special deal, pardnah? I could get a pile of comics as big as mine. This wholesaler in Rio Claro closing down. He selling out all his comics for next to nn-nothing.”

“I fed up of westerns already.”

“That is the thing. If was westerns, I wouldn’t be sp-spilling the beans. Is superhero comics.”

“Phantom and Mandrake?”

“The latest. And Batman and Justice League and Grgreen Lantern and Captain America. It even have a bl-black superhero too. “

“I don’t believe you. How much?”

“Ten dollars for the whole grop.”

“Where you expect me to get all that money from?”

“If you really want something, you will find a way. This world don’t wait for coward fr-frightened people.” He made stealing from my mother sound like a good thing

How could Sporty have forgotten all of this? How could he take his briefcase and hold it tightly against his chest as if I might grab it? And just walk up the step in Union like I was a perfect stranger? It was only when I was entering Regent Park that I considered he might be a refugee.

As soon as I got home, I told my father, “I see somebody from Mayaro in Union today.”

“Who?” He was by the kitchen table and I could hear the snap of his cereals as he chewed slowly.

“Sporty from behind Mrs. Bango parlour. He use to stammer a lot. And he had a nickname.” After a while, I told him, “Homo.”

He continued chewing his corn flakes and I was sure he cracked a small grin. “What he doing here?”

“I really don’t know. He didn’t talk to me.”

“You really don’t know?” Usually this tone was the signal for some mocking comment but now he tapped his cigarette against his palm and went to the balcony. It had never occurred to me before but now I wondered if he too missed Mayaro. After he had smoked a couple cigarettes on the balcony, he went into his room.

Later that night while I was washing up the wares, stupid as it was, I imagined my father walking out from his room and talking about some of the other villagers he had known; and me listening carefully until he was finished before I described how Sporty had outsmarted me. I would mention Sporty’s surprise at the ten dollars I had scraped up and promising me the best comics from his pile. Telling me, “S-so long, pardnah,” as I was leaving, and making all sorts of excuses every time I approached him until the evening I saw the front step of his halfway teak house, empty.

I could have told my father that in the weeks that followed, it looked like Sporty had outsmarted half of the village. He had promised the fishermen new boats from the Venezuelan coast guard and the farmers better prices for their coconuts from some new cooperative. Everyone had paid upfront, and my mother, as if she had known all along about my own arrangement with Sporty, telling me over and over that I should never trust sweet-talkers who promised the moon and stars. After that sort of talk, she always mentioned conscience and pointed to her heart as if it was lodged inside there. The other villagers were not as charitable as they put up crude homemade posters on the telephone poles asking, “Have you seen this Homo?” And “Smartman wanted. Dead or Alive.”

A week passed before I saw Sporty at Union again. He was sitting on the selfsame bench next to the cinnamon shop store and dressed in the same old tweed jacket. He was wearing a scarf even in this warm weather. Because he was staring at the electronic schedule on the ceiling monitor—and also because he had been so cold to me during our previous meeting—I decided to leave him alone, but as I was buying a cinnamon bun, I heard someone saying softly, “Pardnah.”

When I looked back, I saw Sporty stroking his goatee and staring at the bun in my hand. I walked across and sat next to him. “Your face looks very familiar,” he told me.

But he was still staring at my bun and I wondered if I should offer him half. “I met you right here about a—”

“Let me guess. Was it at one of my classes at Ryerson?”

“No, it was—”

“Then could it have been at my seminar at the library?” He shook his head. “No, no. I don’t think so. It must have been during my lecture at the annex.”

I now saw that it was a towel not a scarf wrapped around his neck. “It was right behind Mrs. Bango parlour in Mayaro. You charged me a shilling to read your westerns.” I almost added that he had run off with my ten dollars.

He crossed his legs and shifted closer to me (and to my bun). “Mayaro. Maya-roo.” He seemed to be experimenting with the name, and it struck me that he was not stammering one bit. “Do you know there were Indians living there? Not Indians like yourself, mark you, but the real variety. When Columbus landed with his men, these Indians were peeping out from behind every coconut tree. Did you know that?”

“From my primary school West Indian Reader.”

He seemed disappointed. “That was a long time ago. Much would have changed since. Tell me about Mayaro.”

“What you want to know?” I thought of the posters.

“Remind me of the place. The wind breathing through the trees and the sound of coconuts dropping on the mud. Tadup, tadup. The hairy mangrove crabs and the turtles. The evening sky looking like a big mash-up rainbow with all these colours leaking down on the sea. The fresh smell of fish and sand in the mornings. Cascadura jumping up from the ponds like living clumps of mud. Dew skating down from the big dasheen leaves as if they playing with the sunlight. A horsewhip snake slipping down a guava branch as smooth as flowing water. Cassava pone cakes and seamoss drinks.” To tell the truth, apart from my descriptions to Dilara, I had never thought of Mayaro this way: my strongest recollections were always of my mother getting sick and the couple months at Uncle Boysie’s place. Off and on, I would also think of the fishermen in the rumshop and of my short friendship with Loykie, the Amazing Absorbing Boy. But Sporty made me recall these other slices to the village and caused me to miss it even more. I even smelled the fresh fish odour that clung to the sea moss washed ashore in the mornings and the strong woody aroma of the peeled husks from the coconut factory. For a moment, I lost my fear of returning.

“It must have changed a lot,” he told me. “That is the way life is. Right now I am changing before your very eyes.”

I blurted out, “So you are no longer a refugee?”

He pretended he had not heard me, then he patted his briefcase and I heard a sound like the tinkling of spoons. “All my documents are here. My life’s work.”

I felt ashamed for trying to trap him. “Everything?”

“My total inventory. If I die tomorrow my entire life can be deciphered from this.” He patted it again and now there was a squishy sound.

“It must be very important.”

I was glad I didn’t mention that his stammering had disappeared because he seemed happy with my remark. He laughed and I noticed his big, yellow front teeth. “Cinnamon cakes always remind me of cassava pones, you know. Could be the spices. Can I smell it?”

I held up the bun and he leaned towards it, his nose grazing the crust. I couldn’t eat it after this, so I offered it to him. He examined it a bit, bared his teeth like a manicou then took a little bite, chewing slowly and smacking. Maybe the bun really reminded him of Mayaro and his Indians because between his toothy nibbles, he told me a story. The story was about these old time Spanish who had recently landed on Guayaguayare, a village next to Mayaro. There was some sort of problem with the local chiefs who were becoming impatient with these foreigners getting in their way and digging up everywhere for gold and silver and making all kind of rosy promises. The grumbling became nastier when these Spanish fellas began to force some of the Indians to build their new homes. It appeared they were here to stay, the Indians realized. One of these building was a big round structure with one door and no windows. When it was finished, the Spanish invited all the chiefs and their wives and children for a big fête.

Sporty dusted some crumbs from his goatee and said, “A massacre, you know. Every last one of them.”

“The Spanish fellas?”

“The Indians. One door and no windows. Nowhere to escape from. A perfect trap. Some properties are like that.” He grew silent after his story and I wondered if he had got it from one of his comics. But in his westerns, it was always the Indians doing the massacring.

After about five minutes of no talking, I told him, “Well, is time for me to go now.”

“I suppose so.”

His statement confused me because it seemed as if I should now say something else. “To my home in Regent Park.”

“Two bedroom?”

“Just one. Small place.”

“You live alone?”

“With my father.”

He became quiet again and I wondered if he was trying to remember my father but then he asked me, “You could take in b-boarders?”

I was a little surprised at his stammering because he had talked normally during the entire conversation. I told him, “I think my father fed up of even me living there.”

“Yes, yes. That is how it goes sometimes.” He didn’t sound too disappointed. “Why you don’t le-leave?”

“To go where?”

“That is always the question, pardnah.”

While I was walking to the exit, I glanced back and saw him pushing the remaining bit of bun into his briefcase.

In the night, I told my father, “I think Sporty is a refugee.”

I would not have spoken to him but he was sitting before the blank television. As he did not reply immediately I prepared myself for some sarcastic comment. However, he remained quiet. A few minutes later while I was microwaving a bowl of Kraft Dinner I heard him ask something about a letter. I removed the bowl and walked to the kitchen. Did he discover about the money sent by Uncle Boysie? I decided to pretend I had not heard him but now he asked instead about the house in Mayaro. “Boysie mentioned anything about it?”

I shook my head and for the entire five minutes that I sat by the kitchen table he stared at the blank screen. Maybe my mention of refugees had finally made him understand the seriousness of my situation. The next day I was in a better mood than the entire month, and on my way to Union I detoured to the library where I printed out an entire set of application forms for the Alternative Centre. Sporty was at his usual spot with his head bent over some pages set on the top of his briefcase. I decided to buy two buns but when I offered him one, he told me in a busy voice, “Leave it on the bench.”

I glanced at the form he was filling out. There were many crosses and scratches as if he couldn’t decide on the information. When he paused for a while and tapped his pencil against his leg, I asked him, “What you doing there?”

“I am working on a proposal.”

“I have some forms too. They are for classes that will fast track me to college.”

He glanced at the rolled-up sheets in my hand. “Mine is important. A very weighty project.”

“What it is about?”

“That is a good question. A better question would be ‘What it’s not about’? You understand? What I am saying, is that it is about everything. A complete history of the last six hundred years. From 1492 to the present date, to be precise.”

“That will take a real long time to finish.”

“Three months, at least.”

“Only that?”

“Pruning is a real art. You have to know what to leave out.” He took the bun and held it before him, turning and examining it carefully. “Take a man life, for example. He born, he go to school, he dropout. He move from place to place trying to inspire others. Then he die.” He bit into the bun. “End of his history.”

“You think anybody will want to read this sort of project?”

“If they are smart, they will lap it up.”

I told him, “I mentioned you to my father.” He seemed a little worried until I mentioned my father’s name.

“Danny. Yes, yes. Left the village a few years before me. Always wondered what happened to him. Smart man.” I wanted to tell Sporty he didn’t have to mamaguy me just because I bought him a bun when he added, “Was developing a special method for making teeth.”

“Really?”

“From plastic. Common household items. Cups and such. Melted them in a big ball. Brilliant.” He mentioned all of this in little snaps as he crossed out words in his form. I wanted him to talk more of my father but he opened a flap on his briefcase, fiddled around a bit and brought out a jar of whiteout. First, he blanked out a few words then he moved across the form rapidly, until in about a minute or so the entire form was white. “It seems as if I will have to start over. Perhaps I can borrow yours.”

“These are for school.”

“Of course. It wouldn’t work. What course are you taking? May I suggest a course on insects? It was the most interesting programme I taught at Ryerson. Do you know there are ten million species? My favourite was the slinky fly.”

“I never heard of them.”

“Not surprising. Very hard to track. Other insects wait until the slinky flies build their nest before they chase them away. Always on the move.” He pointed his nose in the air and added, “My second favourite is the damsel bug.” I was wondering if he might be able to help me with my admission forms when he said, “Sadly I was let go after discussing just fifty-five species. Terrible business. I had more than nine million left.” When I left, he was making calculations on his sheet, perhaps checking the exact number of insects remaining in his course.

While I was walking home, I knew I couldn’t ask my father once more to sign the form so I decided I would leave it in a spot where he couldn’t miss it. I considered the fridge door and the kitchen table before I settled on the television where it would not get lost in the shuffle of free newspapers I sometimes brought to the apartment. Each night when I got home, I checked for a signature, waiting till my father went into the washroom or his bedroom. Though he did not quarrel as before—mostly staring at the blank screen—the form remained unsigned.

I wished I could ask Sporty for some advice or get him talking of my father but he always seemed too busy. One night, about a month after our first meeting, he was in a real bad mood. “They rejected my project,” he told me. “They didn’t approve the gr-grant.” He got up, pushed the bun into his briefcase and walked up the step. Just like that!

I believe this rejection must have hit him hard because he seemed real frazzled for the next week or so. He walked up the stairs with his buns after just a couple minute and I wondered whether this was all he had been waiting for. Then one night I saw him busy once more, scribbling into his form.

“A new project?”

“This world does not wait for those who don’t get in line. They are left behind, as a rule.” He smiled. “If you pay attention, you will see that every disappointment comes equipped with a loophole. The trick is finding the loophole.” He was right about these loopholes: although I needed my father’s signature on the college forms, if I was just a couple months older I would have been on my own. I wanted to tell Sporty of the benefits of being a minor but he was busily crossing out lines on his own form. “The loophole could be anywhere,” he was saying. “In this particular case, it came in the form of a dream.” He looked up, his head held now in its normal position. “Vision would be a better word, actually. Yes, yes, vision.” He seemed to be studying some of the bars on the ceiling. “I had this vision of people, plenty people moving. You know what a caravan is?”

“A sorta van or carriage.”

“Well, there were thousands of family packed in these caravans. Moving and moving.”

“Just like in Union?’

He fetched out a pen from his briefcase and scribbled Union before he continued, “These people were all running away. To somewhere better where they could start over and watch their grandchildren running through the fields collecting damsel bugs and slinky flies.” I was about to tell him this project seemed more promising than the previous, when he added, “This journey began thousands of years ago. It started in a jungle and that was the easiest part because these travellers bounced up deserts and plains and mountains and oceans and junks of ice bigger than Canada.”

I just had to ask him, “How long this project going to take?’

“This is the problem. You see, this project involve all sort of regions and languages. It not as straightforward as the last one.” He glanced down at the form on his briefcase and scratched out some number. “I would say three months, at the very least.”

Two weeks later, he took the bun I had bought and told me his outline had been rejected because he could not fulfil some requirement. He was in a real sour mood but by the time he had finished the bun he began to talk once more of his loopholes. Soon he hit on another project. A compilation of all the unknown plants and animals on earth. He mentioned the slinky fly and a couple beetles. “Ignored species, suffering in silence.”

Once again, his outline was rejected. This was the pattern for the entire month and although he seemed to recover with each new project, I felt that every rejection had damaged him in some small way. His stammering, though not as bad as before, returned. I tried to help him. “What about refugees?”

He looked at me suspiciously before he began to calculate on a sheet. “There are exactly three hundred and forty-six species of refugees on this planet.” He glanced around at the benches opposite and adjusted his figures. “Three hundred and forty-nine.”

The next night he said he had to abandon the project as it was too dangerous. He snapped and unsnapped his briefcase’s clasps before he asked, “Would you be in-interested in a loan? Just a sm-small sum. I will pay you back as soon as possible.”

I thought of his previous scam as I reached into my pocket. “All I have is a ten.”

He took the bill and folded it into a tiny nugget. “You may not believe it, but this ten dollars might have sa-saved my life.”

He shook his head sorrowfully. I felt a little ashamed for not trusting him. I remembered his question about boarders. “So where you living?”

“Wherever I am when night falls.”

“You don’t have a regular place?”

“This station isn’t that bad. I have all the heat and water and lights that I need.” He cheered up. “And in the nights, when it’s very quiet, I tap into my visions. The only problem is the men toilets. Filthy. The ladies’ is much better. I have learned to pee sitting down. An art in itself.”

Maybe it was his worries about not having a regular place to stay or perhaps it was just all the disappointment but the following night Sporty told me, “The plug got pulled.” I thought at first that he had been evicted from the station, maybe for going to the ladies’ toilets. “The visions have dried up like an old cucumber vine.”

This comparison sounded sort of funny but Sporty was not laughing. “What about the loopholes?” I asked him.

“Traps! Nothing more than traps.” He patted his briefcase. “This bag have more traps than a crab-catcher van. Tonight when everybody sleeping I going to take it and pelt it ass down the Don-Don Valley.”

“What about your documents in there?”

“Traps. Traps!” He almost sounded like my father.

I told him, “I feel the same way too.”

“Then you are a fo-fool.” He glanced at my hands. “Where is my bun?”

“I ran out of money.”

He dusted his briefcase as if there were breadcrumbs there. “Yes, pardnah. That is the way li-life is.”

I felt sorry for him. “Maybe you could write something simpler.”

“This is the problem with the world today. Everybody want something simple and break down in small pieces. Bu-but I not design that way. That is not my route.” He seemed so offended that I was not prepared for his question soon after. “What you have in mind?”

“Maybe something about these Indians that get killed in the round house.”

I didn’t expect him to take me seriously but he told me immediately, “I see what you getting at. A complete history of what happened to the Indians after the Spanish arrived. I could move from Mayaro to Cuba and Hispaniola.” By the end of that conversation, Sporty had extended his project to include Mexico and Venezuela and several other South American countries. And the next time I met him, he told me, “I don’t see why I have to limit myself with these jungle Indians. I could move across the plains of America too. Sitting Bull. Crazy Horse. Geronimo.” I was sure he got these names from his westerns but he added, “It had a lot of these fellas roaming about in Canada too, you know.”

During the next two weeks, he filled me in on the state of his project. “These Indians had a real tough life, you know. They get outsmarted time after time. Chased away from their homes just like the slinky flies. I believe I discover something important, Pardnah. Real important. These people had no idea of trickery. That wasn’t part of their package. They lived a straightforward life so when they bounce up anybody dishonest, they goose get cooked. Sitting Duck, not Sitting Bull.” As he talked, I felt he was describing his own life. “Now I going to do something honourable. Please, don’t protest.”

“I not protesting.”

He held up a hand as if I was putting up a big argument. “I going to also put your name on the application. After all, it was you who put the idea in my head. When I get the grant, you will be entitled to half.”

“Is you who doing all the work.”

“Quite true but is still the right thing to do.”

“Is up to you,” I told him finally.

“So it’s settled then. As the co-applicant, you will have to split half of the hundred dollar application fee. Just fi-fifty dollars. A small sum for a big investment.”

“I really don’t—”

“Please. Is the le-least I could do. I know you thinking that I giving away this mm-money but I am a man like that. Honest and straightforward. Just like these Indians. In fact, I think I might have some Carib blood in me. Not much, mark you, but enough to make me a straightforward man.”

“I don’t have that much money on me.”

“How mu-much you have?”

“A little more than thirty.”

He crossed his legs and leaned forward with his elbows on his briefcase. I heard him mumbling, “One hundred divide by thirty one equal to …”

His calculations were talking a while so I told him once more, “You really don’t have to include me in any application, you know.”

He straightened. “You will get qu-quarter. That sound fair?”

I was sure he was scamming me and I couldn’t understand why he was putting up this big show. I was giving him the money because I felt sorry for him, living in Union, waiting for the buns, working on all these proposals, getting turned down time after time. And also because he mentioned Mayaro every now and again. After I handed over the money, he told me, “The universe always ba-ba-balance itself. So far I have identified eight hundred and sixty-six ways.” He took out a form from his briefcase and wrote: Co applicant. “This is the nice thing about these forms. You don’t have to include everybody na-name.”

The next week Sporty tried to chisel out some more money from me but I had made up my mind. He mentioned that these arts council people liked proposals about Indian history and that his project was sure to be approved. He told me that he would use his portion of the grant money to rent a small apartment by the Beaches. An old house with gables and two steps leading to a small porch. With a couple flowers in the yard which he would look over as he worked on his project on the front step. He seemed to be describing his house behind Mrs. Bango’s parlour. “The most important thing in a man life is property. A piece of the earth. A place he could leave his mark so a hun-hundred years later a passerby will say, ‘That is house where Sp-sporty used to live.’”

The next week, the bench he always occupied was empty. I waited for a while. A thin young woman with a ring on her left eyebrow unslung her knapsack and sat next to me. She left after five minutes or so. A Sri Lankan couple with their bags of fries came and began chatting in their language. I felt a little annoyed because they were talking so loudly, as if I wasn’t right next to them but after a while, their words seemed small and neatly arranged in straight rows. I thought of a cob of corn.

That same night I realized why my father had been so distracted during the last couple weeks. As I was entering our building, I saw the Creole woman who had given me the form about refugees. She was chatting with a small group and when she spotted me she said, “Samuel, take this sheet and give it to you mother. Tell her we having a meeting this weekend.”

I read the sheet in the elevator. It seemed that Regent Park was going to be demolished and its residents placed elsewhere. All of a sudden, I felt real happy. Maybe me and my father would move to a place similar to that described by Sporty, and there we would start over and get to know each other as father and son. He might even resume his inventions. And perhaps years later a passerby would glance at our house and say, “That is where Sam and his father used to live. Father was an inventor and the son was a college student.”

When I got into our apartment, my father was not there. I switched on the television. A woman with big juicy breasts was talking about the healing power of special cubes and pyramids. She seemed too pretty for this nonsense but just before I changed channels, I wondered whether the troll-lady mumbo jumbo in our apartment was connected with this Regent Park eviction business. I checked the forms on the set and went to the kitchen. Two minutes later, I returned to look at the forms once more. I felt suddenly that I should not be eating Kraft Dinner that night, maybe something that fancy Canadians ate. Steak or salmon fillet. Several times that night I rechecked the admission form just to make sure that I had not imagined my father’s signature at the bottom.