Its a small crash after all…
Driving on the bridge that connected downtown Toronto with Toronto Island, Melissa wondered how easy it would be to careen off the highway. How many people would stop? How many would curse her for stopping traffic? Would anyone miss her?
Yesterday had crashed into her subconscious as she inched up the ramp from the downtown core in mid-afternoon traffic. Her grade six students had behaved badly, her husband had been fired and her daughter, the bright and shining star in her hitherto unspoiled firmament, had packed her bags and come home from university, apparently to ‘find herself”. What on God’s earth was that, Melissa thought? When she was her daughter’s age, she didn’t get a choice! Who cared if it wasn’t what you wanted to do with your life? But oh no, these days, children actually had a choice and they were choosing not to do what they needed to do to grow up.
As she sped behind the blue Toyota Corolla at a respectable 102 km/hr, she smiled wistfully, remembering how all those annoyances completely paled in comparison to the news she’d received in the doctor’s office at 9am that morning. At forty-six, parts of her body were understandably beginning to pack up and head south. Her hips hurt, her chin was beginning to beget another chin and the grays in her hair were multiplying as fast as the bacteria in her throat. Off to her doctor she went and as she recounted all her symptoms, she heard Dr. Vanderkooy snore – rude man – and then he sent her off for blood tests. Don’t those things normally take a couple of days, she responded, when she received the call from the doctor’s office barely an hour after. No, Mrs. Krieg, Dr. Vanderkooy needed the results quickly. You’re 8-weeks pregnant.. Can you come back to the doctor’s office for some prenatal tablets?
She laughed till she cried, and then she cried till she laughed. Lake Ontario looked so blue, so inviting, and so easy to fall into and never come back up. Mark would find another job. After all, downtown Toronto was teeming with mediocre restaurants that would jump to hire a fired Four Seasons Chef with an earned blue ribbon from the prestigious London Cordon Bleu. Janice would suddenly find herself – loss has an unforgiving way of doing that to you – and then probably go back to university. The baby…well the baby wouldn’t exist would it?
As she blithely planned her demise with the precision of a Swiss watch, the blue Corolla in front of her suddenly careened off the highway at a speed well over 140km/hr, flying off in a twirl and landing with a splashing thud in Lake Ontario. Melissa screamed as she struggled to keep her hand on the wheel of her Ford Focus, coming to a screeching halt in between the railings of the bridge. The airbag went off and as she pulled pack to breathe, her back felt the force of a 200-ton truck, brushing against the side of her car as the driver struggled to keep the weighted beast away from the railing. Melissa watched in horror as the truck somersaulted and followed the Corolla into the lake.
“Phew”, she exclaimed as she pulled the space-like helmet off her head. She turned to hr husband Mark who, having done the same, was beaming from ear to ear.
“This Disney ride sure makes you love your REAL life, doesn’t it?” What happened to me in your ‘reality’?
Melissa didn’t wait too long to answer.
“You were on The Apprentice and got to fire Donald Trump… his hair fell off”.
They both laughed.
…………………………………………………………………..
A Buffet of Bricks
Jacquie chopped away at the cucumber, deftly maneuvering the knife to avoid chomping at her French manicured nails.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Barely”, she responded nonchalantly.
“How many times am I going to have to apologize? I told you I never got the email”.
“Listen Kris, I’m just tired of hearing you say you never got my email”.
Kris sighed heavily as a pall hung over the small kitchen. For the past few weeks, he’d probably missed half a dozen emails from Jacquie and all of them just happened to be important. From picking up toilet paper – because the last roll was on its last square – to dropping off their tax returns at the IRS depot before the midnight deadline. To top it off, this morning, his magnetic entry card was rejected at the door to the Makrim Gold Mining Company on Bay Street.
Jacquie served two plates of her chicken linguini, placed a side of salad beside each and without as much as a glance at Kris, proceeded to eat. Kris walked over, sat down and started eating.
“So how was your day”? He asked gingerly.
“Good”.
“Did the slush pile turn up any gems?”
“No”
The phone rang and Jacquie pressed the speakerphone button.
“Hello”?
“Hi Jacquie, its Margaret”
As in Margaret Tomlinson, the NY Times Best-selling author who had just left Penguin and signed a mega deal with her employer Bluestock, Faulkner & Finkelstein.
“I’d like you to take a look at a manuscript – written by a fellow named Bricks – yes I know, same last name as yours – perhaps that’s why it initially stood out for me ”.
“What is it about?” she asked tiredly.
“Mining disaster in Peru devastates an entire village. One child survives – vows to bring down the company that ran the mine. Gripping”.
“Mining industry insider?”
“Most likely…his insights seem spot on”
“I bet”, she said sarcastically.
“I’m emailing it right now”
Jacquie’s email to Kris Bricks asked for a lunch meeting at Spinoza Restaurant. He responded very crisply, referring to her as Ms. Bricks and thanking her for taking the time to look at his manuscript. The nerve! Feeling like she wanted to wring his neck, she went shopping at Kanga and bought a two hundred dollar purse. She didn’t need it but if Kris wanted to play hardball, well, she’d show him who had the balls.
At precisely twelve fifteen, Jacquie walked into Spinoza, barely concealing her anger as she spied Kris seated alone by the window…he was having a Caesar salad with rye croutons. The waitress came over and asked if she had a reservation.
“Yes, Jacquie Bricks – and I have a meeting with Kris Bricks”.
“This way please”, as she led Jacquie through the maze of lunchtime diners, away from Kris and towards another section of the restaurant. There, seated casually at a table for two was a tall bearded man, possibly in his forties, sporting an Ozwald Boateng designed suit.
Stunned, Jacquie reached out and shook his hand.
“Mr. Bricks?”
“Kris…please?”
They laughed awkwardly as he pulled out the chair for her. She quickly composed herself and asked the most important question to her at this point of her spiral free fall of the brain.
“Is your real name Kris – with a K – Bricks?”
“Um…yes”, his eyes questioned her question.
“And you work at Makrim Gold”?
After the slightest of pauses, he smiled.
“Used to…I got fired just last week. Why do you ask?”
“Did you ever get an email asking you to bring home some toilet paper?”
