(4 weeks)
THURSDAY.
Before exercising at the Y, I usually stretch by a window while making excruciating eye contact with the old man who lives across the street. He keeps a pillow on the windowsill of his third-floor apartment so that he can get some good leaning, spitting, and staring done. But today, rather than endure what I can’t help but feel to be his silent judgment, I watch the five-year-old campers play musical chairs in the centre of the gym.
The plight of the odd man out—running around looking for a seat and then slowly realizing there is none, that it’s all too horribly late—is heartbreaking to watch. It’s as though, through play, the children are being prepared for the cruelty of life and career to come. All to the strains of Nicki Minaj.
I can’t get the sight of those kids from the Y out of my head. I share my melancholy with Gregor when he stops by my office to discuss “opportunities.”
“I was excellent at musical chairs,” he says. “I was a precocious kid. At my age now, being precocious would mean lying down in a coffin and awaiting interment.”
In recompense, Gregor offers to take us for hot dogs, but I decline.
“I’ve been feeling a little heart-attacky lately,” I say.
“If your life was ever made into a police drama, it’d be called Scaredy Cop.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.”
When we get to the snack bar, there’s only one open stool at the counter. Gregor takes it, leaving me to stand. In life you may not always get a seat, but often there are hot dogs to make your stand more bearable.