The show began. The people onstage looked like ants. Singing ants! What a concept! But why were they so fuzzy? It suddenly occurred to me that in our haste to get to the show on time I had left my glasses back at the hotel.

“I can’t see a thing!” I complained to no one in particular.

“Shh!” the high school students chorused.

A few minutes later an usher came by hawking programs. I was tempted to ask him if he also sold high-altitude oxygen bottles, but I knew Jan would slap me silly if I did.

“Do you sell binoculars?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Only $15 apiece.”

“I’ll take a pair, please.” He took my money and ran.

I inspected my new purchase in the half-light. It looked like something you’d get with a McHappy Meal. When I removed the shrink wrap, one of the eyepieces fell off and rolled down the aisle. A Good Samaritan picked it up and returned it to me. I jammed the plastic lens back into place and tried focusing on the stage. If anything, the el cheapo binoculars made it look even farther away. Now the people were no bigger than grains of sand. Singing grains of sand! Gosh, what’ll they think of next?

“Hey man, binocs. Cool! Can I try?” asked one of the acne victims behind me.

I tossed the useless binoculars over to him.

“You can keep them,” I grumbled. I closed my eyes and settled in for a several-hundred-dollar nap.

The next day we went shopping. I like shopping about as much as the next guy – which is to say, not at all. I basically spent most of the day muling Jan’s multiple purchases around the mall. When I started getting blisters on my palms I pleaded for mercy and escaped back to the hotel. Jan returned a few hours later. Her Visa card was so hot it glowed.

Later that evening we started getting ready for our dinner date. At 6:55 a cab dropped us off at the restaurant. As we hung up our coats we agreed we were definitely indebted to Jan’s colleague for his tip. The place looked classy and the food smelled delicious.

I walked up to the maître d’ and said, “Hi! We have a seven o’clock reservation.” He stared at me intently, much like a scientist studying an unusually freakish lab specimen. Uh-oh. “Under Gray,” I added nervously. He cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything. The suspense was gruesome. “Is there some kind of problem?” I finally blurted out.

“Oh no, not at all,” he said. “But perhaps monsieur would like to wear… zis?” He reached into a nearby closet and pulled out a threadbare brown corduroy jacket. I recoiled in horror. Oh, no. The house jacket – the jacket loaned to charity cases who have the gall (or stupidity) to show up at formal restaurants in inappropriately casual attire. I briefly wondered what Quincy scribbles on his coroner’s report when someone dies of embarrassment.

I was about to politely decline his offer and slink out of the place like a mangy cur when three couples sauntered in and lined up behind us, effectively blocking our escape route. I noted miserably that each of the men was wearing a high-end Harry Rosen suit. I recognized the cut because I happened to own one. The problem was that these guys were wearing theirs, whereas mine was hanging uselessly in a closet about 800 kilometres away.

“Sh-sh-sure, I’ll wear the jacket,” I stuttered. I motioned for him to pass it to me. I was hoping to get it on before anyone else noticed some jackass had tried to defile the dress code.

“Let me help you weeth zat, monsieur,” he oozed. He then proceeded to hold the arms out for me. I tried not to flinch as I slid my arms in. Behind me I heard one of the Rosen triplets gasp. My cheeks started burning. I snuck a peek at Jan. She looked ill. I finished wriggling into the jacket and straightened up. It was about three inches too short at the wrists. Hey, look at me – I’m Jethro Bodine! I had a frightening vision of the maître d’ poking around in his carnival closet of terror for a jacket that would fit me better while more and more guys straight off the cover of GQ joined the line-up behind us.

“Fits great,” I squeaked. “Where do we sit?” Jan and I marched to our table in lockstep. I was certain everyone we passed was gaping at me and whispering, “Is that guy really wearing the house jacket? What’s this place coming to? Let’s get the hell out of here!”

The food tasted like sawdust.

On-Call Gall

“Once more unto the breach!”

 

- King Henry in William Shakespeare's

The Life of Henry the Fifth

It’s Saturday morning in the ER. I’m about to emerge from my foxhole at the main desk and go on point again. Born to Cure… .

My first patient of the day is Rocky. He moved to our little duckburg only a few weeks ago, yet he’s already racked up an impressive number of alcohol-related ER visits. Rocky lives at “no fixed address” and his home telephone number is “not applicable.” This time he’s been delivered to us because someone found him crawling around on his hands and knees trying to round up a herd of invisible bugs. I guess everyone needs a hobby. I drain the last of my Tim Hortons coffee, rrroll up the rim (please play again!) and walk over to his cubicle.

Rocky is horizontal on the stretcher. He’s a dishevelled-looking fellow in his late 50s. His salt-and-pepper hair shoots out wildly in all directions and he’s sporting a week’s worth of gnarly stubble. It looks like his nose has been broken a few times. He’s heavily doused in that best-selling cologne, Eau de Stale Booze. I think he’s sleeping.

“Hi Rocky, I’m Dr. Gray.”

No response.

“Wake up, Rocky.”

He yawns widely and rolls onto his side. Ack! Plumber butt much?

“Rise and shine, Rocky!”

His eyes pop open.

“Whaddayawant?” he grunts. Communication! Hey, now we’re getting somewhere. Things are looking up already.

“My name is Dr. Gray. I’m here to see if you’re okay. Are you able to sit up?”

Sitting up doesn’t pose much of a challenge to most people, but the Rock Man makes it look like it should be included in the decathlon. He plants his elbows firmly by his sides and starts throwing his head forward in a series of jerky attempts to lift his torso off the stretcher. At the same time his legs scissor up and down vigorously. I fail to see how that’s going to help the situation. Perhaps Mission Control sent different messages to the upper and lower halves of his body. After about half a minute of flailing he manages to get himself upright.

“Thanks, Rocky. Now I’m going to – ”

“Wait!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick!”

“Hang on, I’ll get you a basin right away!” Too late – he leans over the wastepaper basket beside his stretcher and does a humongous technicolor yawn: “Huuurrrraaaalp! Huuurrrraaaalp!”

There’s no sign of blood in the stuff coming up. Big Macs and Pop Tarts, yes, but blood, no. I hand him some towels and canvass the area for a basin.

Does everyone else’s workday begin like this?

While an aide cleans up Rocky, I proceed to the next cubicle. In addition to looking like he’s just been keelhauled, patient number two is wearing the same cologne as Rocky. Talk about bad luck. This isn’t going to be another one of those days, is it?

“Hi, I’m Dr. Gray. How can I help you this morning?”

“I wanna go to detox. I don’t have any money, so I’ll need a ride, too.”

“Okay, we’ll see what we can do. When was your last drink?”

“Last night.”

“How much did you have?”

“Lots.”

“What were you drinking?”

“Lysol and Orange Crush.”

“Anything else?”

“Shaving cream.”

Mamma mia.

I ask switchboard to contact the intake worker at the nearest available detox centre. Rocky’s still barfing up a storm, so I order some IV fluids, Gravol, Valium and thiamine for him before moving on to the third patient. According to the chart, his name is Harley Wayne Gacy. If he’s not a serial killer, I’ll eat my socks.