She pointed to the clouds and said, It looks like you.
What are you talking about?
The crazy kid is pointing at the clouds of smoke coming from me and my cigarette.
You look like smoke.
Yeah, whatever.
I sigh and take another drag. Why do so many single women have kids? Lolita glares. I smirk. Were enemy soldiers fighting for her mothers affection. I aint the first one shes had to deal with and Lolita is pretty much like all the other little brats Ive known.
You want to go to the toy store?
Im twelve, not seven.
So?
Toy stores are for babies and little kids.
I didnt know there was an age limit.
You mean you forgot how old I am.
Lolita looks like a nine year old. Her hummingbird face is hidden behind faded blonde hair that hangs like old curtains. Her spindly body reminds me of a stick insect.
Well, where do you want to go?
I dont care. Take me to the stupid toy store.
This is all Marges fault. She felt Lolita and I should spend some time together without her. Apparently we need to work out our feelings for each other. I didnt have the heart to tell her that Lolita and I pretty much know our feelings on that subject. Marge and I have been together for about three months and our lust is still strong. So I do what she wants.
They live in a basement suite near Splash Toys on Dunbar. Its okay, but seriously there is no toy store in Â鶹´«Ã½Ó³»to compare to the old Windmill Toy Shop. It used to be up in Kerrisdale on one of the corners along 41st and it had the best stuff. My parents couldnt afford much, but I loved to look.
Lolita is pretending to look at these mini disco balls when she launches her attack. You look like a man.
Part of my charm.
I do look like a man to the untrained eye. Marge drunkenly hit on me at the Topanga Cafe when my girlfriend was in the can. Oh, I knew Marge wasnt gay, but she was sexy. I gave Marge my number and she retreated before Naomi returned from barfing up her meal. Our relationship was nearly dead and Marge would be the bullet that finally killed it. I admit Im way too casual in my meandering from woman to woman. I cant be alone and I cant be with anyone. Once my looks go and all my bad habits start mushrooming into various cancers, Ill accept solitude. But for now I will love whoever catches my fancy.
Mom thought you were a real man you know. One who looked like Brad Pitt.
Yeah I know. She told me. Lots of women have told me.
I never expected to hear from Marge. The red light was blinking on our antiquated answering machine. I pushed play expecting the usual soliciting from corporations, charities, and Naomis family, but instead Marges sexy, girly voice echoed through our stale little apartment. Naomi quit chopping the onions and removed her apron. She tried to show indifference. I guess I could have lied and said Marge meant nothing and begged Naomis forgiveness, but I didnt want to. I was tired of being with her.
As Naomi was putting on her ratty poncho she said, Im going out to dinner. Alone. When I get back you better be gone.
So I whisked the few bits and pieces I owned back to my moms. Ive never really moved out of my old room. Mom doesnt seem to mind. Hell, she even feeds me. After I settled back in, I called Marge.
Sparks of electric passion flew like crazy as we spoke. She still thought I was a guy and I didnt care if she did. I had to see her.
I grab a disco ball and ask, Do you want one of these?
Lolita narrows her eyes and mulls over the implications of accepting a gift from the enemy. Surprisingly, she wants one of these crappy little things. Im enjoying her struggle with her lust for the stupid thing and intense hate for me.
Yeah I do, she mumbles and then reluctantly adds, Thanks.
Youre welcome, Lolita.
She smiles at me. Im disarmed by the beauty of it. I think I might have smiled back, Im not sure. I adjust my cowboy hat and clear my throat to get the sales girls attention. I never intended to buy the kids affection with a goddamn disco ball. I dont know what prompted my generosity. Im a cheap piece of work by necessity of my lifestyle.
Lolita is beaming as she clutches her prize. I have no idea what to do next. We still have a big chunk of time left. I know what Id like to do, but Lolita is a mystery and Marge didnt give me one clue.
I need a coffee, I announce, and I dont want to go to anymore stores.
Lolita shrugs. She has her disco ball, what does she care. We go into a humble coffee shop a few doors down from Splash, so I can get my forbidden caffeine fix. Marge may drink like a mad woman when she cuts loose, but the rest of her habits are very strict. No caffeine, refined sugar, trans fats, wheat, white rice or pasta. She eats only organic and local, which can be very trying at times. Shell give me hell for this coffee, but I cant seem to function without it.
Do you want anything? I ask Lolita, because I dont want to look like a jerk for letting a waif starve while I suck back a big coffee.
What am I allowed?
What?
I mean can I have a drink and something to eat or only a drink? Can I have one of those? She points to a big, oozy cinnamon bun. Or maybe Im only allowed that. She points at a sausage roll. Mom never buys me stuff from a place like this.
People are following our conversation with great interest. I forgot Marge was raising her kid like a freak. How come I always end up with women who have eating disorders? Bulimic, anorexic, fad dieters, vegan, or like Marge just plain weird. I think all she was eating the night I met her was lettuce and tomatoes washed down with a pitcher of lime Margaritas.
Get whatever you want.
Ill have a bottle of water and that, says Lolita, pointing to the cinnamon buns.
I order our stuff. We are now partners in crime. Caffeine, refined sugar and wheat are our drugs of choice.
Were going to Southlands for a picnic, I say.
My car is my spiritual home. I live and work in it when I follow the rodeos. Its a cozy nest of art supplies, clothes, dishes, and garbage; comforting smells of eaten meals, dirty laundry and cigarettes linger like friendly ghosts. I dont apologize for how I live.
This is a cool car.
She sounds genuine in her admiration. Im suspicious, shes never praised my car before.
Thanks, I say and as I turn the key in the ignition Buddy Millers soulful voice soars from the cassette player. I curse myself for not remembering to turn it off. Im usually very careful.
Do you like country music? she asks as I reach to turn it off. Its okay we can listen.
Yeah, I love it. True confession, I admit shyly.
Well I love disco. Thats why I wanted this, she says holding up the bag with the disco ball in it.
Mom says disco is awful, so Ive got to listen to it secretly. She always ruins it with her complaining.
Yeah I know what you mean.
Marge is the law. She loves jazz and classical music. I could see her hating disco, because I know country music isnt a top choice either. Theyre the refined sugar and trans fats of the music world, but you cant control what touches your soul. I know people who deny the existence of souls, who claim that certain types of music move their souls. I dont argue with them.
I park the car by one of the barns. The smell of horse delights my nose. I breathe in deeply, its almost as satisfying as a smoke. I love horses. If you use your imagination, Southlands seems like rural country side. Its hidden along the banks of the Fraser River just below southwest Marine Drive. Really its gentrified country lanes for the daughters, wives and mistresses of the wealthy to ride horses.
I never knew this existed.
Why would you? Unless you ride, why would you ever come here?
Do you ride?
When I have money I do. I light a smoke. I mostly draw them.
Really?
Yeah I draw and paint horses all over North America. Its how I eat.
Wow.
Wow is right my friend. Its the best thing in my whole life. I love it.
I really want to draw now. I dont know how Lolita will feel about spending two hours around horses with nothing to do. Im used to acting on my impulses. I dont like being thwarted. We eat our cinnamon buns and drink our liquids. Im cursing Marge for dumping her daughter on me like this.
This place is neat. Its like we left Vancouver, Lolita says before taking a big mouthful of cinnamon bun. Im having fun.
Is it the cinnamon bun or the horses that caused this transformation in her? I have never seen Lolita this happy in my presence. Im sure it will pass.
Lolitas shoes are not stable worthy. I dig out a pair of my old boots from the chaos of the backseat.
She puts them on without comment and even thanks me. We walk around looking at the horses. I tell her what I know about each horse and we feed carrots to some of them. Lolita is pleased when a girl I know asks her if she wants to help clean out some of the stalls. They head off to get the wheel barrow and shovels.
I settle down to draw. I cant know something unless I draw it. I used to take photos and then draw them, but I lost my camera years ago when I was on the road, and I was forced to draw everything in a cheap notebook I bought at a gas station. It changed my art. Now I only sketch and take everything back to my studio in my moms basement and put it all together there. I have a pretty devoted following. Im not getting rich, but thats not why I do this.
I drift into the barn. They are shoveling silently, because the work is hard. Two horses are peering over the back stall door watching them work. I start sketching. As I move my pencil over the paper I begin to realize that Lolita is more than the bratty little piece of girl her mother foisted on me. She wants bigger things than what her world is with her wacky mother.
Still Marge is pretty amazing. For our first date we went to The Naam. Marge and I laughed and talked easily during our meal. After dinner we went for a drive to find a place to park. I was very impressed that the mess in my car didnt dampen her passion. We couldnt go back to her place because of Lolita and there was no way we could go back to my moms. We were sober adults desperate for sex. We parked by Locarno Beach and began to make out. I was going to confess my lack of penis, but Marge thrust her hand down my jeans and discovered it for herself. She went quiet and I held my breath. But all she said was shed never been with a woman before and she thought she was going to like it a lot. So we went for it. To this day she has never reproached me for not telling her.
Lolita notices me drawing and waves. She could still tell Marge about the cinnamon bun and get me in trouble. I dont know how things will unfold with Marge and Lolita. Horses are my true love. Im on the road a lot following rodeos, horse shows, carnivals, anything or anywhere horses might be. Monogamy is difficult for me when Im touring about. I sigh and keep sketching. Im really content right now.
Brie gave Lolita something to tie her hair back. For once I can see her face. I draw determination and joy in the curve of her cheek. My boots are huge on her, which makes her look vulnerable, but tough. Later when shes finished she flops into my car, too exhausted to move. Lolita has blisters on her hands from the shovel, but she doesnt complain.
Can I help you change out of those boots?
She nods her head and tries to hide a yawn. I remove the muddy boots and toss them onto the backseat. Then I slip her shoes onto her feet.
Can you bring me here again?
It all depends on you.
I want to come back here real bad. This is the most fun Ive had in a long time.
I can bring you.
Youre not like the other men you know.
No Im not.
I close the car door. Marge is waiting for us.
Sarah Grant Duff was born in Ontario, but has lived most of her life in Vancouver. By her own account, she was a terrible student, barely graduating from Lord Byng in 1983. Sarah has written stories and poems for her own enjoyment for as long as she can remember. Not many of her friends and family even know she does this. Placing third was a wonderful surprise once she recovered from the shock. Sarah currently lives in Kits with her husband, kids and Zoey the pug.
