These September school holidays, Shadi and I spend a lot of time at the Granville servo. It’s too cold out to go to the pool or the park or even the McDonald’s parking lot. We stand in the sunlight, me, Shadi and Mohammed, the three of us leaning against the wall listening to the bells ringing in the Ukrainian church down the street.
Under Mohammed’s instruction, me and Shadi can split a pumpkin seed between our teeth (most of the time) without choking ourselves to death. Next, Mohammed has promised he’s going to teach us how to box. Already, he has hung the thick rubber base of an old chair up in the corner of the tiny staff-room. After eight, when the service station shuts down, he teaches us.
At this stage, we mostly just watch as Mohammed cuts through the air with his fists in one quick movement that brings his whole body forward against the cushion. Me and Shadi just sit there taking it all in, watching his stance, the way his feet float up and down on invisible cushions of air. He hits again and again but he never looks angry; he looks completely in control. Sometimes, when I’m watching Mohammed, I forget who he is for a second or two of blurry movement and I see Dom.