I’m driving down Wellington Street on my way to meet Lhia for dinner. She called me and said it was about something important, but all I can think of are my bills. Bloodsucking vampire bills. If I pay my student loan and my Canadian Tire card with my Visa, pay Visa with MasterCard, MasterCard with my line of credit, then I’m covered. But then there won’t be enough cash left in my chequing account for rent. I’m already in overdraft. Damn. That can’t be right. Let’s do this again. Student loan with line of credit, Canadian Tire and MasterCard with Visa, Visa with MasterCard, rent with a cash advance from MasterCard. That would raise my MasterCard minimum payment, though, which would mean higher bills next month, which means I better get a cheque soon — with all my back pay owing. Plus interest.

The gas gauge is pointing to an eighth of a tank. Jeannie, my trustworthy Jeep, loves me enough to soldier on for two more days on empty and still look sexy. But even gas fumes run dry. If I park here I’ll save a quarter. Slam on the brakes. Bang the door shut. Remember my personal loan payment is also due. Slip on a patch of ice. I reach for the Jeep’s door handle. Save me, Jeannie! I’ll dream of you. This is my last really good pair of designer jeans. And Randall loves me in these jeans.

I stand up straight and dust off my jacket. Now I’ve got to iron things out. I’m the family smoother, but it never soothes me. Where’s my pat on the back? Where’s my pep talk? I hate being the adult. And I’m going to be late if I don’t hustle. I tuck my hands into my pockets and seize on the quarters and loonies there. Five bucks. I thought I’d feel like a million at this age. I sniff the outside air again. It’s crisp. Even in the city, with its exhaust and toxic spume, I can smell the change of seasons. That’s my farm-boy trick.

Who am I kidding? I’ve been gone for well over a decade now. Almost two. I don’t usually admit that because the real numbers make me feel old. And where I live still doesn’t feel like home. Ottawa is a soul-squelched city with a chilly bitch of a wind. Bashes you over the head with the first signs of winter and laughs maniacally. It’s only going to get worse. I’m already slouching, shoulders hunched under my coat to shield my neck from the cold. I think of Randall and straighten. Randall says good posture makes clothes look sharper, especially in winter. I want to look sharp. And expensive.

I look around at the market regulars. An old man in an orange toque stands in his regular spot beside a fire hydrant shaking a paper cup half full of change. He swears at me as I pass by, but I keep walking. My dad would have an awful comeback. He says embarrassing racist things, too, if you let him go on too long. He’s a real compassionate guy, my dad. Except for when it comes to people.

I stop to gawk at the svelte Eames chair in the window of a vintage furniture boutique. Something moves in my periphery. Nearby is a figure in black huddled in a doorway. Looking dejected. I’m not my dad. I have empathy. I palm a toonie from my pocket and drop it in the direction of the guy’s hand. It clangs on concrete before being snatched up by a black-and-blue limb. Now I’m a little scared. Is this guy a brawler? Beaten? Infected with something? Am I going to have to call an ambulance? I wait for my muffled “Thank you” so I know he’s all right. So I know I can go.

“Hey wait a minute!” The figure crosses his long legs, yoga-lotus style, moves a fraction of an inch toward me, and I step back because I’m a jerk. And a coward. But now I’m looking at this guy instead of glancing at him, and I think the black and blue might actually be paint.

“I’m not panning for change, sir.”

Wait — there’s no cigarettes or gravelly, grumbly old weariness in that voice. And sir? Shouldn’t I be offended by that? How old is this guy? I look closer. Under the layers of dark, filthy clothes and street grime there’s a kid. Not much older than Lhia.

“I’m just hanging out here.” The kid holds up the toonie, offering it back to me. “I’m waiting for my friend.”

“Uhhh, sorry.” I have no idea what to say now. Or do. I back away. Thanks, Dad, you taught me well.

“Fine. If you don’t want it, then I’ll keep it.” The shiny toonie disappears into his pants pocket. “Maybe I’ll get a coffee later. On you.”

“Yeah, get yourself a coffee, kid.” I smile to myself. That sounded human! “It’ll warm you up.”

“My name’s Nik, by the way.” The young man reaches out to shake my hand, but that’s too much for me. Or, rather for my knee-jerk legs, which hustle me away on their own accord, the conservative bastards. Apparently I’m only left-leaning from the crotch up. I’m already around the corner when I hear the kid talking to himself about being invisible. It makes me feel so much better to know he’s crazy. Up until then I was feeling uncomfortable about the idea of someone so normal and polite ending up alone in the gutter. Around the corner from Sussex Drive. In view of the nation’s glorious Parliament Buildings.

I speedwalk past Byward Market Square to Zak’s Diner. Blast of warm air and noisy college rock. Everything inside perfectly, wonderfully predictable. A booth full of male students in jeans and T-shirts making ribald jokes about female body parts. A table of after-work, loosened-tie civil servants with papers spilling out of overstuffed briefcases. I spot an available booth. I slip off my black wool jacket, hang it on a hook, and straighten the collar of my blue-striped shirt before I sit down. Everything tidy. Everything smooth.

I look around and make eye contact with a man in a suit. His wedding ring sparkles, but the disco lights are gone from his eyes. He looks away. He’s not talking to the woman he’s with, which means she’s his wife. She’s as dour as a storybook nun. These are people who do not have sex — at least not with each other. They’re married to their jobs, roles, secrets. I start playing “Civil Service,” my little game of matching office workers with their departments. The man must be with one of the technology sectors at Industry Canada — relatively exciting, largely ineffectual. I think that the woman is an underappreciated librarian at the National Archives until I catch a glimpse of the flashy designer label affixed to her coat. She’s mid-level management grinding away at Statistics Canada. I’m at Foreign Affairs and International Trade. On contract. Can you tell? Is my not-quite-employee status showing?

A waitress darts past, keeping a tray of oversized milkshakes afloat. I strategize about whether to put this dinner on Visa or MasterCard, and distract myself by flipping through the songs on the tabletop jukebox. I drop in a couple of quarters and pick some old goth standards from the eighties and nineties for Lhia. The Smiths. The Cure. Depeche Mode. I used to like these bands in high school, too. I got the vibe, though I never dressed up. I’ve never been glam. Lhia seemed to enjoy my music picks the last time we had dinner, even though I was grilling her about school. Now she says she has something to ask me. I wonder what it’s about.

I look up to see Lhia flounce in. Her hair is a little messier than usual, but other than that she looks more or less the same. Way too much makeup and at least four separate shades of black among layers of velvet and wool. It’s always like seeing a phantom of my sister at sixteen, they look so much alike. I get ready to play all my adult cards, but with a cool attitude, of course. I don’t want to lose all my awesome uncle cred. Last time Lhia tried to get away with ordering a beer. That’s something teenage Tina would have done. Now that I’m an uncle I want to be the superhero role model Tina and I never had. We only had our closed-minded parents to talk to back when we were growing up on the family farm near Winnipeg. And peers who were just as addled as we were. Oh, the confusion! I would never go back in time. You couldn’t pay me enough to.

Lhia lands in the booth, exuding teenage drama. It swirls and wafts around her like drugstore perfume. She looks up at me with baleful, red-rimmed eyes. Today’s smudgy black eyeliner effect is spectacular. She could be in a music video.

“Oh, honey, what happened?” I lean over and pat her on the shoulder. Give her the sympathetic smile. Try to think of something smart to say. Start prepping jokes for later. It appears I’ll be starring in the role of Cheery Uncle tonight.

The waitress appears with menus, glances at us, takes her ordering pad out of her apron pocket, and starts writing. “Two grilled cheese again?”

I love how bored the waitress sounds. Like every dinner show is in permanent syndication, and we’re predictable reruns. We order the same thing every time. It’s comfort food.

“Yes, please.” I nod to the waitress. “And a coffee.”

“Make that two coffees,” Lhia says.

My girly whirly is serious today indeed. I remember when my sister Tina first started drinking coffee. It was right around the time she got really interested in bands …

Uh-oh.

I grab one of Lhia’s hands. It’s colder than a cocktail glass.

“Uncle Georgie? I need your help.” Lhia looks at me again. Oversized manga-comic-book eyes. I sigh. It’s too soon for this. I’m too young for this. I think of toddler Lhia jumping into my lap for a big hug. Remember playing peekaboo and hide-and-go-seek around my apartment. It wasn’t too long ago I was still buying her toys at Christmas. A classic Fisher Price airport I found on eBay. A big pink plastic dollhouse. One year I gave her a charming stuffed monkey I nearly kept for myself. I refocus on the nearly adult version of Lhia in front of me. I pat her ice-cube-tray arm, make encouraging “Um-hm” sounds.

“I have this friend?”

Is that a “friend” euphemism, or friend, as in troublesome punk boy she doesn’t want me to meet? I hear a faint ringing sound. A momentary pause as our coffees arrive. We tear apart cream and sugar packets. Lhia takes a sip, makes a face, adds more sugar.

“He’s this totally brilliant artist. A painter. You would DIE if you saw his work. I mean it literally pierces your soul. You can’t teach that, you know.”

“Okay. So where did you meet this guy?” I rub at my ears. What is that annoying ringing sound?

“Um. Around.” Lhia shrugs and blinks. Like a TV teen. Then she leans forward.

“I’m totally worried about him,” she says. “It’s getting cold outside.”

“And that’s a problem because …”

Lhia takes a strand of hair and twists it. It’s a nervous gesture, which surprises me. “He’s super sweet — it’s quite a story. He travelled a long way to save his girlfriend’s life, but she liked this other guy, maybe, well, he thinks so. Or at the very least he doesn’t think she’s in love with him, even though she should be, because he’s amazing. And super nice. He has, like, the best manners ever. You wouldn’t even believe it.”

“I’m confused. Where is he staying?”

Lhia leans forward. Her expression all hopeful and eager. “That’s the thing — he doesn’t have a place to stay and the shelters are terrible and I really, really want to help him. I want to make sure he’s going to be okay and can keep painting. It wouldn’t take much, you know. Of course he says he doesn’t want help, but he needs it. He just needs to catch a break.”

She takes a shallow, hurried breath and continues. “Like maybe five hundred dollars to help him get back on his feet? Or a thousand? I can’t ask Mom because, well, you know how broke she always is. And she probably wouldn’t get it. But Uncle George, you’re always so kind and generous and I think you’ll get it. And want to help him. Because he’s so talented. He’s really not like anybody else. It’s like he lives on this whole other plane of existence — and art. Like if there was a God, he’d be way closer to God than everybody else. But there isn’t, or maybe God is a total bastard who’s not paying attention, so my friend needs us.”

She looks at me, believing that super Uncle George will solve the world’s problems with a wave of his wallet. I’m disappointed. And not God, obviously, though I do have lots of experience. Three (nearly four) decades. A real wealth of worthy advice to dispense. I wish being a superhero didn’t involve cash payouts. I feel like an ATM machine. And something is bothering me about this story. I look at my niece and realize her face is glowy.

“Are you two dating?” I must be developing tinnitus. Years of the club music. The ringing!

“Oh, no,” Lhia says. “It’s not like that at all. This girl totally broke his heart. He’s just helping me with my drawing. I’ll have to show you my sketchbook later. And the picture he made for me. I’m going to keep it forever.”

That’s what it is. Alarm bells. Never trust men who write songs for you. Or ask you to star in their movie. Or paint your portrait.

“Oh, honey.” I pat Lhia’s arm. I give her my best this-is-serious-now look. “He’s not a wounded bird to fix. He’s a scam artist.”

Lhia jolts. Startled face. Irritated face. She’s unprepared for a no. But I’m shocked, too. And reminded. This sounds like a familiar story — one I never want to hear again. Lhia will not be going through what her mother did.

“Uncle George! But he needs us.” Lhia leans in, her voice hushed. “He’s, like, soooooo sad. And he’s so scared he told me he thought about trying to get arrested. Because at least if he gets arrested they’ll bring him home.”

“Oh, Lhia. You have to — please stop.” I sputter, making waving motions with my hands. And then I raise my voice. It’s more mean dad than cool uncle. “This is the definition of unsavoury behavior. If he wants to get arrested, then let him. Maybe he should be.”

Two grilled cheese plates slam down on the table. I hadn’t noticed the waitress standing there. Her thin lips are pursed together into a line of disapproval. She shakes her head and walks away. Wow. She hasn’t heard this one before.

“See? Even the waitress is suspicious of the guy.” I look at my sandwich and sigh. There’s nothing complicated about grilled cheese. I pick it up and wave it in the air like a threat.

“I can’t eat this cheesy, gooey goodness until you agree to let this go.” I think of my sister and set the sandwich down. “There are so many worthwhile causes, Lhia, and this isn’t one of them. The most important thing is to keep you safe, hon.”

Lhia stares at her plate in confusion. She picks up the ketchup bottle and spurts a red lake of it onto her plate, like she always does.

“I guess it sounds bad, but he’s a good person.” Lhia jams a full third of her sandwich into her mouth and starts talking with her mouth full. “I feel sorry for him.”

“Well, I feel sorry for a lot of people, but I can’t give everyone a cash bonus like that.” I take a big bite of my sandwich, chew, and swallow the salty softness. It feels like we’re coming to an agreement. “And who’s to say that it would work in the long run? This guy needs real help. Social services. Professionals. Some things money can’t fix, right?”

Lhia dances her fork around in her coleslaw. Her sad sigh wafts over the table. There’s more to this drama. She’s not telling me everything. I’m not sure I want to know. I take an enormous bite of sandwich. Cheddar is like a hug. It’s more familiar than the studiously poured cocktails and elaborate bistro meals I’ve grown accustomed to in Ottawa — food you have to think about to appreciate. It reminds me of fresh farm eggs, doughy perogies, overstuffed cabbage rolls, and massive pots of bland borscht bubbling on the big old family farm stove. I can’t remember the last time I ate mashed potatoes. My mom’s were terrible. I’m a spicy city boy now. As if to prove it, I reach for the condiment caddy at the end of the table. I pepper my coleslaw and spike my ketchup puddle with hot sauce while Lhia makes faces of feigned horror at me.

“Ewww! That’s gross.” She says it with a mouth full of coleslaw and giggles. I’ve got her laughing now. Diner food is my superpower. I don’t even flinch when the bill arrives to burn another grill mark into my Visa. Still, something about this doesn’t quite feel like a win.

We walk back to my Jeep. Lhia tells me about her semi-senile French teacher. The Eames chair catches my eye again. Then the scary kid I gave a toonie to stands up in his doorway. I grab Lhia’s arm and gently guide her across the street. But then Lhia turns, makes eye contact with him, shakes her head in a slow, sad “no.” I look back at the kid.

“Stay here a sec.” I tug Lhia’s arm as I say it, as though I can anchor her in place.

I bolt across the street, too angry to look for traffic. I grab the kid by the nape of his filthy hoodie and pull him hard and close so my face is right up in his. Now he can’t look away.

“You stay away from my niece.”

It’s rapid, visceral, and mean. I twist the flimsy fabric of the kid’s shirt tighter, then let go. He stumbles backward. Starts coughing. I don’t want to hear that. This boy is like Lhia’s asshole father. He needs to be dealt with. I wipe my hands off on my jeans then cross the street. I take Lhia by the arm and march her to my Jeep. There is a roar in my ears. I can’t hear. All I can see is my car. All I can think of is getting Lhia in it and speeding away.

Neither of us say anything on the drive home. I’m more embarrassed about my excessive behaviour at every successive block. I’m sure the kid understood his “no” message when Lhia shook her head at him. Neither of them needed the added drama. I wish that kid hadn’t started coughing. I wish I hadn’t seen the fear in his eyes. That’s going to haunt me. Assholes don’t tear up like that. Lhia’s father’s emotional range was limited to rage and defiance. This kid is different.

I drop Lhia off, then park Jeannie Jeep outside my apartment at O’Connor and MacLaren. Someone’s added a new blue metal orb to the bizarre handcrafted mobile dangling from my favourite gnarly old tree. Quaint. I listen to glass and metal clink together in the wind on the path to the door. I pause at the entrance to listen to the familiar chorus of wind chimes and try to calm down. My colleagues have all moved on to big suburban houses by now, but most of my neighbours are artists. Or lobbyists for lost causes. Lovely people. Hard-working downtown renters who’ve arrived once they can afford to move out of student and bug-infested dives. They pay their rent, live decent lives. I open the wood-and-metal front door. It still impresses. It’s the original from when the building was crafted with old-time care in 1935. They don’t build places like this anymore.

Grandeur is temporary. There’s a fresh stack of bills in my mailbox. No paycheque. Damn. I slam my feet on polished steps. Three flights up. I stick the phone bill in my mouth and bite on it to stop from shouting in the library-silence of the hall. The envelope tastes like glue. The small stained-glass window in the living room glints when I flick on the light in my apartment. I stand for a moment and admire my collection of mid-century-modern furniture. Carefully curated paintings and prints line the walls. I breathe in the cool, dusty smell of the place and tell myself this is what I’ve worked for. It’s mine. It’s cultured. My things are exquisite and expensive. This is nothing like the farm.

My self-counselling works. I feel a bit of pep in my step. Then I trip on Randall’s black leather brogues in the hall, left where they’d been kicked off and where I’ve told him not to leave them about a hundred thousand times. I hear the rapid drill-tap of the keyboard. Randall is working late again. I want to tell him about my diner dinner with Lhia, and my confrontation with the spooky kid, but I know that if I knock on the door now and interrupt he’ll only half listen. Better to wait. I sigh and hang my jacket in the closet beside Randall’s nearly identical, but pricier, version. Randall looms in the doorway of the spare room, cutting a tall, slender, gym-built silhouette. He could be an underwear model. Oh, but then no one would admire his square chin, treasure the perfect isosceles triangle of his nose. I want. I need his geometry. He shuts the door.

Fine. Let him spend the evening with his fat, ugly files and bloated emails. But a simple hello would have been nice. Decent. Reasonable. Oh, Scotch, my old friend. I haven’t seen you since — well, since last night. I lean over my vintage chrome sideboard and pour myself a tumbler.

“To lawyers.” I raise my glass to the living-room lamp. “And sensible relationships with stable men.”

Coming home used to mean exuberant hugs, stories, and gossip in the kitchen while Randall stirred tart cocktails and cooked three-course meals. Then he started getting bigger cases. Now he occupies my spare room, runs up my phone bill, and shushes me every time I turn up the volume on my TV or stereo. I know my apartment is closer to the office and courthouse than Randall’s house is. Randall is practical. And although I bitch about him constantly, he’s still princely. I smoulder for him, even after picking up his dry cleaning, ordering take-out, doing the laundry. I pay for my half of everything we need — and sometimes his share, too, when he’s too busy high-level thinking to remember such lowly details as toothpaste and tissues. I’m his boyfriend, wife, and personal assistant all rolled into one. Tell me that’s not superheroic.

I glance at the stack of mail I left by the door. I must have missed something. There’s got to be a familiar beige government envelope in here. I flip through the envelopes again, desperate for a monetary hug. I’d kiss a cheque tonight. But I’m holding a fistful of bills and overdue notices. I grimace. I calculate the number of days my cheque is overdue and realize it’s two weeks later than it’s ever been. All I can do is sit down. On the uncomfortable leather sofa Randall insisted we buy. And when I say we, I mean I — the charge crash landed on my MasterCard.

I’d better call Lucy. She’s an old friend from Winnipeg, but I don’t hold that against her. She’s sweet. And she never does anything. I’m not sure she likes it here in Ottawa, but she never complains. It’s so calming talking to someone so devoid of drama. Her voice is as dulcet over the phone as a late-night CBC Radio host’s. In person she smells of vanilla and peppermint. I dial but Lucy’s line rings and rings. That’s strange. Perhaps she’s working late. Or in the bathtub. I hang up without leaving a message and try to imagine how I might grovel for Randall’s attention without provoking a fight.

Then I think about the spooky kid. He was a mess, but he did try to shake my hand. Told me his name. Nik. I wonder if his family knows where he is. I remember what that horrible, constant worry was like when Tina was far away and on the road with her asshole musician. I try to think of how I might get in touch with the kid’s parents. Whether or not that would help — to get him out of town and away from my niece. I can get Randall to call in a favour through his legal and police contacts and see if the kid is in the system. I’ll ask tomorrow. I just need to get the kid’s last name from Lhia. If it works, it might even bring me back up to somewhat cool uncle status. I take a sip of Scotch and then another, and sink into the sofa’s deep, leathery recessions. I feel sleepy and let myself drift. That way Randall will have to come wake me. I’ll get a hand up and a hug and then he’ll lead me to bed and we’ll have tidily avoided confrontation again.

I wake up shivering. I shift to a sitting position on the sofa, shake my left foot awake. My jeans have left uncomfortable indentations in the skin below my waist. My shirt is twisted up under my armpit. I spit afghan fluff from my mouth. The brown blanket now lies in a heap on the floor, along with two red decorator pillows. The silk one I got at a fancy pillow boutique in Toronto (for almost two hundred dollars) is now marred with a jagged drool stain.

I stand up and twist back and forth to loosen my tight, aching back. I march down the hall, stand in the doorway of my bedroom, and stare at the lump snoring warm and comfortable under my feather duvet. In the bathroom I have to yank dry contact lenses from sore eyes. Tomato-red eyes. Monster eyes. In the hot spray and steam of the shower I feel a rumble from deep within the recesses of my gut that emerges from my throat as a low growl. I wrap myself in my big dark-blue towel — the one that’s hung up — pluck Randall’s stinking, damp towel off the floor and shove it, along with my clothes, into the hall closet hamper. Then I stomp into my bedroom and flick the overhead light on.

“Ow. Hey!” Randall covers his eyes. “Why did you turn on the light? What time is it?”

I open the closet door, select a pair of black dress pants and a dark striped shirt, and place them on my dresser. Then I pull clean socks and boxers out of a drawer. New system. No hello from Randall last night means no good morning from me.

“I’m getting ready for work. I thought at the very least you’d wake me so I could sleep in my own bed. This isn’t your own personal pied-à-terre you know.”

“I worked really late last night, and at the end of it I just fell asleep.” Randall yawns, unaffected by my tirade. He sits up, peers in the mirror at himself, and tidies his minor bed-head with his hands. I am annoyed by his hair, the shine and symmetry of it. The consistent attention it receives. “Come here, hon.” He leans back on his elbows as he says it. “I still have lots of time before I have to be at the office.”

I pull on my pants. I put on the shirt, do up the buttons, then reach for a tie.

“Wear the navy one.” I turn to see Randall appraising me judiciously. “The green one makes you look — ”

“Makes me look what?” I glare at Randall. “Fed up? Because that’s how I feel right now. Underpaid? Because I’m that, too.”

“I was going to say nauseated.” Randall shrugs. “Green is not your colour.”

Randall fluffs his pillow and lies back down, staring at the ceiling.

I crumple the green tie into a ball and throw it at him. Then I stand in front of the mirror and knot the navy tie. I know Randall is watching me, monitoring my technique. I widen my stance and straighten my spine. I’m not going to back down. I’m not going to devolve. One more withering glance and I’ll be the skinny, nervous farm kid again hiding in the hayloft and the attic because I can’t deal with the reality of where chicken dinner and hot roast beef sandwiches come from. This is the part in our fights when I let my grumbling stomach lead me into the kitchen for hot coffee and a toasted multigrain waffle and Randall takes a shower and we forget about the whole thing. Or this is the part where I accept a hug and kiss from Randall and let everything stay the same. This is the part when I grant my chicken free range.

But I don’t feel like myself today. My anger is unrelenting. I sit down on the edge of the bed and look at my chicken. Randall has smooth, lightly tanned skin, the unworried brow of someone with money. I look into his brown eyes, hoping to see a glimmer there. Reassurance. Empathy. Something human. Randall looks back at me, twitches his beak, and flaps his ruffled feathers.

“Remember, we’re taking the Beauchamps to dinner tonight. I said we’d love to try that new bistro in the Market.” Randall turns to rest on his right elbow. His biceps bulges. “I looked at the menu online and it’s pretty reasonable. We’ll each put in a hundred and fifty, including tax and tip. I’ll put it on my card and you can pay me back later.”

“Bill Beauchamp, the lawyer.” I stand up and stare down at my chicken. “Your buddy from private school in Rockcliffe Park.”

“Of course.” Randall picks up his BlackBerry and starts thumbing through messages. “We’re networking, so make sure to wear your new dinner jacket. Pair it with your dark shirt and tie.”

“Maybe you should pay to take your colleague and his wife out for dinner.” I poke my finger at Randall’s toned chest.

“What? You’re not coming?” Randall looks up from his BlackBerry. “They like you, George. It looks good that I’m with an up-and-comer from Foreign Affairs.”

“Are you even listening to me? It’s not that I don’t want to go, Randall, it’s that I can’t afford it right now.” I say it to challenge Randall to pay. Or offer a loan. Or take me in his arms, kiss me long and hard, and promise me I don’t have to worry, he’ll take care of everything.

“I’ll tell them you’re sick.” Randall looks back down at his BlackBerry screen.

“That’s romantic.” I grab the device out of Randall’s hand and toss it onto the pillow. “Look Randall, I don’t think you’re hearing me. I’m broke. B-R-O-K-E. You don’t seem to comprehend what that means, so let me explain. I don’t have any more money for expensive dinners, drinks, and nights out with your colleagues. I’m a civil servant. You’re a lawyer. I can’t keep up.”

Randall stares at me and blinks. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“No, I’m not breaking up with you.” I rub my forehead with the back of my palm. The words spew from my mouth and turn surreal when I say them out loud. “I’m saying we have to work a few things out. Things have to change.”

For a moment neither of us moves. I already can’t believe I said that.

“I see.” He looks at me and frowns. I did say it. I wait for a long-winded speech, but for once Randall is silent.

“I’m going to work.” For once I have the upper hand. I pause at the door. Randall hasn’t even picked up his BlackBerry yet. “Let’s talk about this more later.” Now I have the last word, too.

I sit at the long boardroom table and flick the end of my plastic pen against my knee. One by one, each policy advisor on my team recounts his or her progress for the week.

“You’re quiet today, George,” my ultra-efficient boss, Elaine, says finally. I watch her lean back in her chair without relaxing the rigidity of her shoulders. She always looks like a million bucks.

“Yeah, I’ve been telling all the jokes for a change.” Jack chuckles, as though this is funny. He’s responsible for long-term policy planning and has an annoying habit of interrupting everything. “That’s why no one’s been laughing.”

“Maybe comedy costs extra.” The words tumble onto the boardroom table with more force than I expect. I pause to watch Elaine lean forward and snap to attention. Elaine hates conflict. Controversy gives her hives. “I’ve made a great deal of progress on my files,” I say. “But apparently I’m working for free, because I haven’t been paid for nine weeks.”

“George, this sounds like a matter we should discuss after the meeting.” Elaine is micromanaging me, trying to shut me up. I stand up instead.

“No. It’s not the first time. Everyone else here gets paid every two weeks because they’re on staff.” I step back to lean against the cool metal of a tall black filing cabinet and cross my arms. “I’m not going to do any further work until I get paid. And this can’t continue to happen.”

I see panic in Elaine’s eyes and pounce.

“Elaine, make me an employee.”

“George, you know we can’t do that. We only have seventeen staff allocations.” Elaine shifts in her chair, attempting to regain authoritative control. Heads swivel and bob around the room. Silence and raised eyebrows. Of course nobody comes to my defence.

“Well, get another one, or I’ll be working on my resumé.” I stroll toward the door, walk through the deserted hall to my cubicle, and turn my computer off. Then I grab my jacket. On the elevator I look at my watch and avoid eye contact with people getting on at other floors. It’s 11:30 a.m. I have no idea what I’m going to do for the rest of my day. I stare at a bike courier’s black leggings and combat-pant cut-offs, study his blue plastic pedal-clip shoes. The elevator doors open to the lobby level and the courier dashes toward a decrepit bike parked by the door. For a moment I wish my job were simpler. Pick up a package, drop it off. Drive a combine across a wheat field and then back the other way. But then I’m outside on Slater Street in the cold. Walking down Bank Street in the wind. I catch a glimpse of the Parliament Buildings and feel a rush. There’s nothing like sitting in the press gallery while policies you worked on are being run through first, second, and third reading in the House. Or hearing one of the questions you wrote up being asked, and answered, during Question Period. Nothing else comes close to what it feels like to play strategy games with national consequences. I stand still at the corner of Bank and Slater as civil servants in dark suits and overcoats pass by. I look back at my office tower. I already want to go back.

I turn, stare up the street and glare at the Peace Tower. “I want in.”

I say it out loud. Now I’m a crazy, too. And I think about that fucking kid again. I should help him. I’ll ask Randall tonight about what we can do. Randall will know.

The pedestrian light changes and I walk north toward the Hill. I go a whole block before I remember the House isn’t sitting this week. I see the sparkling, illuminated sign for Holt Renfrew. A familiar beacon. Comfort. The revolving door spins me in.

I’m fingering soft wool trousers. The tailoring is impeccable. I’m only here to look. But it wouldn’t hurt to try them on, see how they fit. Doesn’t mean I have to buy them.

“Hi, George.” Anthony, the menswear clerk, always remembers my name. “We just got some new sweaters in that you have to see. The cashmere is gorgeous.”

There’s a twinkle in Anthony’s brown eyes that reminds me of Randall — early Randall, the one I first met. I follow Anthony to a row of rich woodgrain shelves.

“Oh, the dark grey will look so good on you.” Anthony holds up a sweater in my size. “Let me get you started with a fitting room. I must show you the new season’s shirts, too.”

An hour later Anthony is waving bye while Miranda, the cashier, wraps a navy blue shirt, the grey sweater, and a new pair of black wool pants in sheets of pristine white tissue paper. Her silver polished fingernails flash like muted mirrors under the dimmed fluorescent lights. I reach out and touch a subdued orange-and-brown striped winter scarf. Randall would love it.

“I’ll take this, too.” I hand the scarf to Miranda. “This one’s a gift.”

“Excellent choice.” Miranda removes the sales tag and places the scarf in a box. She leans in, a blush of warmth, admiration, and a hint of co-conspirator in her voice. “Anthony has this scarf in three colour combinations.”

I feel good. For a moment.

Miranda taps the buttons on the computerized cash register with the eraser end of a pencil to preserve her manicure.

“We can give you ten percent off today, George. Will this be on your account?”

Then reality. Sweat starts to bead on my forehead. I shouldn’t be doing this. I fumble in my wallet and hand over the credit card I think has the lowest balance.

“Visa.” I wince as Miranda swipes it through. She hasn’t said my total out loud. As though it’s a minuscule matter. Irrelevant. My credit card is going to explode and send Miranda to the hospital with third-degree burns. I am about to suffer the humiliation and defeat of credit-card decline.

A beep like an angel chorus as the machine flashes the word “approved.”

Once I have the large shopping bag of purchases in hand my wallet feels like a hot rock in my pocket. I slip out a side door. It’s almost one in the afternoon and I’m starving. I walk down Queen Street to Hy’s Steak House. The hostess finds me a table immediately. I open the menu and try not to think about how I cancelled on Randall. I’m about to get up to leave when my favourite waiter walks by brandishing three steak platters. He flashes me a wide grin. I smile and lean back in my chair to absorb the bustle of the lunchtime rush, power meetings, and policy plays. When my waiter returns I order the ahi tuna appetizer, a Cobb salad without bacon, and a pint of beer. I look around me and feel like I belong. I can watch the chess game of strategic negotiations for hours. Now I wish Randall were here with me. He’s good at sideline commentary. And when we run into someone he knows, which is all the time, Randall never fails to remember names and make introductions. I can always count on him for that. Randall has all the contacts anyone with my modest ambitions needs in this town — and then some.

I open the door of my apartment and step in, clicking my heels before slipping my shoes off.

“Hi honey, I’m hohoho, and I’ve got something for you!” I can smell my own beery, tuna-laced breath. My words disappear into a thick silence.

The clock on the living room wall says three o’clock. Of course Randall’s still at the office — it’s the middle of the day. I slip off my coat and tie and step into the spare room to snoop through Randall’s law files. They’re always very John Grisham. Randall practises criminal law and specializes in white-collar fraud. The antique wiring makes a pop sound when I flick the light switch. The messy, dusty room is bathed in orange light. It’s been weeks since I’ve stepped foot in here. Randall has taken it over, claiming it as his own second office. I look around. A tangle of unattached cords snakes along the desk where my computer usually sits. The white bankers’ boxes of legal files are gone. There are no file folders, leather briefcases, legal memo pads, or random, strewn papers. The only traces of Randall are the blank spaces in the dust where his things used to sit. And the slightest whiff of Randall’s pricy cologne mixed with the smell of sour sweat and feet.

I pick up a restaurant receipt with something scrawled on the back of it:

G,

Will return the computer. Am getting the IT guy at the office to wipe my files from it.

This isn’t working anymore.

A man should stand on his own two feet. Will be in touch. Best of luck,

R.

Oh, Randall. You cow. You’re as cold as the Ottawa winter and as emotionally retarded as my parents. I bite my lip. That’s the first time I’ve made that odious connection. Now I’m going to need months of expensive psychotherapy on top of everything else. I head to the bedroom. Randall’s dresser drawers are empty. My green tie, a brown sweater vest, and a couple of my older, pre-Randall shirts are piled on the unmade bed. There’s a Post-it on top, with the single word “No.” written on it. I return to the living room. I half expect Randall’s rules of bartending and drinking etiquette to be posted on the liquor supply, but there are no further notes.

“You took my dignity, but at least you left me my Scotch.” I lift the bottle from the sideboard and grab a glass. “What’s left of it, anyway.” I pour slowly then raise my nearly full glass to the ceiling.

I return to the living room and put an old record on the turntable. Joy Division. One of my favourites. Randall would have hated it. Then I see the Holt Renfrew bag by the door. The cashmere wound.

I imagine Randall’s bank statement. What it would look like for him to peel off the relative billfold equivalent of the toonie I tossed at the kid on the street. Now I understand why the kid tried to give it back. I’m not looking for a handout, either. But I would have appreciated a measure of understanding. I would have enjoyed being taken out for dinner. Randall could afford that. And together we could have figured out how to help that kid.

I know I’m slouching and I don’t care. I don’t need to feel expensive. No one’s here to criticize how I look, see that my contact lenses are floating. I try to blink away the pools in my eyes. I’m so tired of running the money marathon. I can’t keep up. All I want is a real job, a good night’s sleep in my own bed, and the occasional grilled cheese sandwich with my niece. Cash to give a worthwhile cause or two. Access to Randall’s connections again. Randall. The record starts to skip. I adjust the needle, lie on the floor, and listen to Ian Curtis sing “Love Will Tear Us Apart.”

My back starts to hurt. My head is already throbbing. I stand up and grab the stack of new mail I’d tossed on the hall shelf on the way in. Mixed in with four bills are two brown government envelopes. I tear them open. One is an HST statement, and the other a tax-installment reminder. Still no cheque. I wander into what used to be the computer room, open the desk drawer, and pick up a pad of yellow-lined notepaper and a mechanical pencil. I look around. The de-Randall-ed room might as well be a clear-cut in a forest. There’s no way I’ll be able to think in here. I head back into the living room and sit down at the seldom-used dining table by the kitchen. I draw a thick line on the notepad to make two columns. On the left side I write all the current debts I know about. The list flows a long way down the page. I’m not ready to add it all up. On the right I note my total savings: $1,100 in a non-cashable RRSP.

I already miss the constant bustle of Randall typing and talking on the phone in the spare room. The presence of another warm body in the apartment. I pour the remaining Scotch into my glass and grab a stack of bills from the mail tray. I open each one with the dull blade of a kitchen knife and organize them into stacks. I think about how rent is due soon and feel shorter, older, and more ordinary. I want to be around people.

I picture myself back on the farm, sitting on top of the old tractor parked in the barn where I can think and everything always stays the same. After all these years. I try to imagine wearing grubby old jeans and dirty boots again, letting my hair be messy. Maybe I’d grow a beard. I can already taste the limp homemade muffins and burnt chocolate-chip cookies, freshly baked for my arrival and still cooling in the farmhouse kitchen.

I flip through my credit card bills and find the one with the lowest balance. I circle the balance owing and the due date, crave a burnt cookie, stand up, but then make myself sit down again. The 1-800 number for the airline is on the first page of my address book. I tell myself I need a rest. I’ll book a return ticket and be back in no time. I pick up the phone, dial, then hang up. I think of Parliament Hill. Black-vinyl-covered briefing books. Cashmere scarves in three colours. Lhia. Randall. I pull the note pad closer and start adding the numbers.