The Truth About Luck: What I Learned on My Road Trip with Grandma Read online

  Also by the Author

  One Bird’s Choice

  the truth about luck

  what i learned on my road trip

  with grandma

  iain reid

  Copyright © 2013 Iain Reid

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  This edition published in 2013 by

  House of Anansi Press Inc.

  110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801

  Toronto, ON, M5V 2K4

  Tel. 416-363-4343

  Fax 416-363-1017

  www.houseofanansi.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Reid, Iain, 1981–

  The truth about luck : what I learned on my road trip with grandma / Iain Reid.

  Also issued in electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-77089-242-2

  1. Reid, Iain, 1981-. 2. Grandparent and child. 3. Authors,

  Canadian (English)—21st century—Biography. 4. Canadian wit

  and humour (English). I. Title.

  HQ759.9.R43 2013 306.874’5092 C2012-905956-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012948142

  Cover design: Alysia Shewchuk

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

  To Grandma

  “Time just gets away from us.”

  — Charles Portis, True Grit

  IN MAY 1943, the Canadian nursing sisters of the six-­hundred-bed No. 5 General, stationed in Taplow, England, were abruptly informed their unit would be moving out. They didn’t know where, only that it was imminent. The plan was to act on the recent success of the Tunisia Campaign. The Allied forces had gained control over the coast of North Africa. Within a few weeks all remaining patients in the hospital had been transferred. The wards were closed.

  For the preceding four weeks the nurses drilled, marched, attended lectures, and practised raising tents. Along with being issued gas masks, they were taught how to prevent malaria. It seemed likely they were headed somewhere warm. Less than two weeks after the Allied invasion of Sicily had begun — the front lines only a few, short miles to the north — amidst heavy shelling, the nurses of No. 5 General landed at Augusta.

  Between 1943 and 1945, over ninety-two thousand Canadians fought in the Italian Campaign. The environment was harsh. It was unmanageably hot. The ground was mountainous. Disease thrived. Supplies were scarce. Rations were few. Nearly six thousand Canadians were killed. It was Canada’s largest loss in any one country during the Second World War.

  It also marked the first time Canadian nurses served in an active theatre of war.

  THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER, in the spring of 1981, a gaunt baby boy was born three weeks premature in a secure Ottawa hospital. The placenta had pulled away from the wall of the uterus. His mother was rushed to hospital, where an emergency C-section was performed. Mother lost a lot of blood and required a transfusion. Baby was fine. Both were lucky to survive.

  He was a strikingly gangly infant, only five pounds, three ounces, but long and lanky. He had an asymmetrical dimple on his chin and was crowned by a large, domed skull carpeted with fine blond hair. All agreed he had extraordinarily skinny legs and the substantially adult ears of Walter Matthau.

  Most of his five pounds and three ounces was probably found in those fleshy ears.

  MONDAY

  8:12 a.m.

  IT DOESN’T ALWAYS drip. It usually does, but not always. This morning: it’s dripping. A new drop emerges every three seconds. I’m drooped on the toilet, monitoring the tap like a lifeguard. Not to worry, the seat is down. I’m clothed, reasonably. I’m wearing underwear — plaid boxer shorts with a tiny horizontal rip below my left hip. I’m using the toilet as a chair (not as a toilet), a porcelain La-Z-Boy minus the padded features. The floor is cold on my feet. I’m missing my slippers.

  I’ve decided I actually don’t mind this drip. Mostly I hate drips of any sort. This one’s gentle. It’s calming. As far as drips go, it’s almost nerdy. You can’t even hear it outside the bathroom. Not if you’re more than two and a half steps away. With the door closed. While whistling “Uptown Girl.”

  I came in to brush my teeth and splash a handful or two of water onto my face. I didn’t even make it to the tube of paste before calling an audible and just sitting. The rear of the toilet, the rectangular tank part, is cold like the floor and makes for a terrible backrest. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My gruesome slouch has formed my spine into the letter C. It’s almost as if the engineers forgot about this usage, toilet as chair, when they designed it. I’m hunched over, uneasily, my right foot resting on my left knee. I’m using my arm as a pillar to hold up my head. I’m in a traditional “thinker” pose, in a contemporary setting.

  But there’s more to do today than think. It’s just after 8 a.m., still early. I have planning to do and tasks to carry out. Tasks — there’s something I dislike more than drips. Tasks and errands. I’m not much of a doer, or man of action. I’ll just sit here a bit longer. A dull ache somewhere in my prefrontal cortex isn’t helping. It’s really more of a rear-eye ache. Why do my eyes hurt? Could that be a muscular thing? I hope it’s not vascular.

  Okay, fine, there is one thing I resent about this drip: its Terminator-like discipline. No drip ever misses its turn, or even shows up late. Never. Unlike me, it’s contrary to cunctation. Every three seconds. There it goes again. And again. Drip . . . drip.

  The planning I should be doing is for a trip of sorts, a trip that’s meant to start soonish, i.e., later today. I realize the planning should have been done by now, before the first day of the trip. I’ve had more than three months to ensure it will be a trip light on banalities and full of adventure. The problem is, I kept putting it off because I knew today was three months away.

  When it’s laid out in front of you, three months is a rambling cornfield of time, rows and rows of tall, green stalks between you and the ninetieth day. For me, three months is a synonym for eternity. It’s so long, I’m still resisting the planning. I’m putting it off as you read this. Three months ago the trip seemed like three years away, three lifetimes. And then suddenly you wake up with a disconcerting eye ache and today is here and today has become today. I should make a list of what still needs to be done. Lists equate to efficiency, productivity.

  Why does it drip so consistently? Its self-mastery makes me think of a particularly adroit marine. I guess it makes sense, though; it would be illogical if it was erratic. Drips aren’t like people. If I made more lists could I be a marine? I do have short hair.

  Even though it always sticks up at the back at two particular spots, like horns, I don’t mind my early-morning hair. I can live with its undeviating sloppiness. But I’ve never warmed to my morning eyes. It’s the entire circumference of both eyes that is unusually puffy, not just the bottom pouches. My morni
ng eyes are what eyes would look like if eyes could yawn. They stay in this unbecoming form, holding the yawn, inflamed and wilted all at once, for much longer than they need to. Definitely longer than most people’s morning eyes, which are often cute and fleeting. Coupled with my morning horns, I unfairly appear to have just risen from sleep an hour or two after lunch. My eyes can’t look like this because I’m tired. I just slept for nine hours. Maybe it means I’m dehydrated? Or could it be vascular?

  About this trip: it’s changed. So it’s really not just that I’ve been putting off the planning, but that it continues to (d)evolve. There’s a metaphor here about a caterpillar and a cocoon, a brightly coloured butterfly and a poorly organized, disappointing trip. At first, it was going to be somewhere far, exotic. There would be a plane, or planes, and trains involved. Maybe a rickety bus with satchels roped onto the roof. There would be spicy meals served with thick mango juice and fresh seafood, and certainly hotels — fancy ones. And paper maps spread out over the table in our room. Maybe a heated pool and a beach or two. We would need proper hiking boots but also waterproof sandals. A camera would be required to take exciting-looking photos of us participating in inspiring activities that we could later print and frame on our walls or fridge.

  Early on I made the mistake of telling her she’d probably need her bathing suit. “You’ll probably need your bathing suit,” I said. Not anymore. I guess it’s still going to be a trip, but barely. It’s like a hammock — fun to nap on for an hour or two, but it’s hardly a bed.

  In that sense the trip is like a toilet seat, too.

  I should probably wash the mirror above the tap. From this angle I’m noticing some scuff marks, smudges, and fingerprints. That won’t be nice for her to see. It’s strange, I have no memory of ever touching the bathroom mirror, yet I’m staring at a streaked fingerprint. Maybe it’s just too bright in here. It’s so bright my hair looks thinner than it really is. I can see my scalp. From an evolutionary perspective, I feel like thin hair in any light should be considered attractive, no? Doesn’t it mean an abundant supply of testosterone? And doesn’t that mean Good Things?

  As of this morning the trip’s going to be little more than a road trip, a paltry road trip. It’s going to be the fucking Cold War of vacations, lots of build-up and flashy rhetoric with no action. I’m the Gorbachev of trip planning. The worst part is, it’s not even for me. A minor road trip would easily fulfill my trip quota for years. It’s for someone else. It was a gift. The gift was advertised and offered as a proper holiday.

  I need to get going. Or at least get off this toilet. Or at least start a list. I’m starting to compose one now. Mentally. One battle at a time.

  First I need to stand. Which I do, stretching my back as I step over to the sink. My ankles are stiff. I’ve been noticing this every morning for the past month or so. It makes sense because I’m getting older. I’m at an age where most people are getting cozy with adult life. This is a common age to be married, to start a family. I’m not doing any of these things, but I am aging. Getting older means I’m probably going to have an accident, tear my Achilles tendon while walking to the store or something. Achilles tears are one of the most common injuries in men my age, men whose tendons are slowly turning from elastic to rope.

  I cough once and twist the left tap marked with the stylized h. I’m waiting for the water to get to h. I’ve waited for hot water to fall from the tap the past two mornings. Even though the hot water tank has been broken for the past two mornings. Right, it’s still broken today. That’s all I can tell you about it. I have no diagnosis. I need to call someone about that.

  I also have to clean the car. That’s definitely a priority. And check the oil, fill up the windshield washer reservoir, and stabilize the air pressure in all four tires. I’ll need to mobilize our supplies.

  I walk over to the shower just to kick the grungy plastic curtain. I’m not going to shower. I have too many things to do. I’m just too busy for this type of extended grooming. Also, I don’t have hot water.

  I walk back to the sink. The cold water’s still spilling out of the tap wastefully. I bend down, splashing some onto my face. Maybe the cold water will help wake my eyes. I twist it shut and let the water trickle down off my nose. This time the drip doesn’t return. I don’t understand. I wait, but it’s gone. Maybe for good this time.

  There are some whiskers dried onto the sides of the porcelain bowl from my shave last night. It makes the sink look like the floor of a minuscule barber shop. I rise up slowly and examine my eyes in the mirror. No noticeable improvement. From this close, it’s ridiculous how long my lashes are. They’re farcically long and feminine.

  I have to get going. But seriously, the light is definitely too bright. I prefer a humble bulb, one with nothing to prove and a little less wattage. I swallow some saliva. I hope it’s not cloudy outside.

  I need to get more sun.

  9:41 a.m.

  I LIVE IN a small city and rarely use my car. Not just because it’s old and ugly and unreliable and deafening but because I can walk most places I need to go. I got it while living in a different city, a larger city, where I worked at an office and drove every day. I haven’t driven it in a couple of weeks and am pleasantly surprised. It’s in better shape than anticipated. There’s less crap scattered throughout than I remembered. Only enough to half-fill one small plastic bag. Killing two birds with one stone, I do this while nibbling a toasted bagel smeared in herb-and-garlic cream cheese. There’s a muddy Frisbee on the middle back seat, along with a box of empty CD cases and lots of paper receipts.

  I hide all this in the trunk, where I find a musty duck-feather duvet and a porcelain coffee mug with the name Ken written on the side. I’ve been looking for this mug for over a year. Man, I love my Ken mug. It’s such a great fucking mug! For now I leave it in the trunk.

  Structurally the exterior is in good shape. There are only two patches of rust above the rear tire wells. And a couple of spherical dents on the hood that, for me, are attractive in the same way as a set of dimples. Two of the four hubcaps have been stolen, or fell off while I was driving. There are some superficial scratches on the side panel, but what twenty-year-old car nearing three hundred thousand kilometres doesn’t have some scratches and a touch of rust? Along with the faded blue paint it’s also wearing a thin coat of dirt. Cars are always dirty on the outside this time of year. There’s just so much mud on the roads. I’ve also never washed it.

  It’s almost warm enough this morning to do just that. Do people still wash cars? I feel like that was more of a eighties thing. I could soap up a bucket of tepid water and slip into something apropos, swimming trunks or a snug pair of cut-off jeans. I’d get some of those monster sponges and just go to town with one in each hand. Then again, I don’t think she’ll care if it’s a little muddy.

  A neighbour walks by with her toddlers in tow. The children don’t notice me standing in my shorts, hoodie, and slippers. The mother smiles and waves politely. This is the extent of our relationship. Waves and deferential smiles. Still I panic and return her greeting coarsely, by holding up my unassuming bag of paper trash like a talisman. She bends her head and says something indecipherable to the kids. They continue on. Alone again, I crawl back inside the car.

  I feel like I’m entering a hot blue metal cave with an automatic transmission. My first move is to pucker my lips and aim a spurt of breath at the field of dust living on the dash. With a few more spurts I’m lightheaded. Most of the dust has endured my gusty assault.

  Resourcefully I fish my breakfast paper towel from my pocket and use it to wipe off the rest. That’s when I see some cracker crumbs (or potentially breakfast-bagel crumbs) squatting in the crease on the passenger seat. I swipe them passively onto the floor. The passenger seat has to be clean. But so does the back seat. I’m still not sure where she’s going to feel most comfortable.

  Admittedly, even “clean,” it
lacks some pomp. But our chariot is ready. As I worm my way out backwards, one of my slippers, the left one, falls off onto the driveway. I remain kneeling across the front seats and go fishing for it blindly with the now bare foot. I’m able to catch a few small bits of gravel that stick to my sole, but no slipper.

  I wonder if she’ll want to do any of the driving?

  12:18 p.m.

  I HAVEN’T VISITED Lilac Hill, my parents’ hobby farm, in months. It’s the same farm where I grew up and also returned to live for a year as an adult in my mid-twenties. I’m always pleased to see the old house again, the barns, fields, trees, and animals, too. Sometimes I will drive up for a day or two, just for the quiet, for the chance to walk through the fields without human interaction. Today every­thing looks too green and healthy for this early in the spring. There are embryonic buds on the lilac bushes and apple trees.

  From the gate, there’s no sign of the sheep or the chickens. The first sign of life that isn’t perennial is the lone guinea fowl, Lucius. I got to know Lucius and his abrasive personality well the year I returned to the farm. His long neck is stretched upward, his wings tucked into his sides as he sprints up to the verandah from the back field. Lucius sprints? This is new. His legs are shamefully thin and remind me of pink matchsticks. Why doesn’t he just fly? Wouldn’t it be easier and faster?

  He joins Titan, the guard dog, who yawns and lumbers over to greet me. Titan pushes his entire face past the door as I knee it open. It feels like a furry brick on my lap. Like me, he’s looking older. There’s more grey in his snout. He probably thought his bathroom light (the morning sun) was too bright this morning, too.

  Lucius tiptoes around to the front of the car. I hear him snacking, pecking at the dead bugs freckled across the licence plate and bumper. I say hi to Titan and rub behind his ears and his neck. I stand. “Lucius,” I say, and nod sourly at the ugly bird. Although housemates for a full year, we never really hit it off. He chirps his reply and tilts his curved beak to the right, peering up at me.