(46 weeks)
SUNDAY.
On the news, I watch the outrage caused by a potential ban on poutine at a local ice-skating arena. The reporter explains to the woefully ignorant that poutine is a combination of fries, gravy, and cheese curds, but to see it as only that is to miss the magic, to forget that atoms form molecules possessing entirely new properties. I mean, if the sun is not mere hydrogen and helium but, as William Blake saw it, innumerable angels singing “holy, holy, holy,” then poutine is at the very least an obese, sticky-faced cherub having a heart attack.
I watch amazed by the power poutine has to rally a community.
“It goes against our right to be fat,” says an indignant local politician. I am not a very political man, but I am moved by his words.
In the bathroom at work, I place my hands under the faucet. Water is supposed to start automatically, but nothing happens. I switch to another sink and still, nothing. After a lot of waving my arms around, I turn on the taps myself, wash my hands, and go over to the dryer. Nothing. It’s like I’m a hologram. The irrational fear that I don’t exist is a recurring theme in my life, and it’s as if everything I do is in order to prove to myself that I am actually here. But despite my best efforts, I feel as though the automatic hand dryer in my office bathroom understands me better than anyone else.
“You’re not really here,” it says to me. “You may think you are, but you aren’t.”
On the way back to my desk, I hum to myself, “I am. I am. I am.”
THURSDAY.
I’m looking after Boosh for my father. We’re sitting on the couch watching a video when Tony calls.
“What’s up?” he asks.
I tell him I’m eating popcorn, drinking wine, and watching a movie with Boosh.
“Sorry to interrupt your date,” he says.
“What are you talking about?” I say, peeved. “We’re not on a date.”
“What movie are you watching?”
“All About Steve,” I say. “With Sandra Bullock.”
“So you’re watching a romantic comedy that I assume you paid for, and drinking wine. Dude, you’re on a date with a dog.”
I hang up the phone, un-dim the lights, and put the cork back in the bottle, my date ruined.
FRIDAY.
Walking back to my office after lunch, I lose my thought. I am left with no trace whatsoever of the thought’s content, but I do have the overall feeling that the thought has left behind: a certain looking forward-ness. Despite having forgotten what I am actually looking forward to, knowing that there’s something out there that I’d previously assessed to be worth looking forward to is a nice enough feeling. After a few seconds, though, I realize that what I was looking forward to was the piece of uneaten Melba toast from yesterday’s lunch that I’d left in my desk drawer.
Back at my office, the sadness I feel for having looked forward to the Melba toast overwhelms the happiness I feel while eating the Melba toast. Overall, I am left feeling pretty even.