We're only making plans for Nigel,
We only want what's best for him
We're only making plans for Nigel,
Nigel just needs this helping hand

XTC’s ode to masturbation played on the stereo in the background as I cued the DVD again to the beginning. It had just been delivered to my room a little over an hour ago and already I watched it twice. I hit the pause button on the remote, pointed the remote at the stereo and muted Colin Moulding’s strained whining, and then turned the remote back to the TV, hitting play.

On the screen my dog was in her play position, ass in the air and tail wagging frantically, as she waited for one of my parents off-screen to throw a toy. Then from the side of the frame, a Frisbee went flying into the distance. Sophia took off with a tear, growling as she gathered speed in pursuit of the airborne disc. Just as the Frisbee started to slow and lose altitude, Sophia caught up just enough to fling herself into the air, and snatched the Frisbee.

From off camera I could hear my Mother. “Wonderful Sophia! Such a jump!”

Sophia had jumped over three feet off the ground for a frisbee. My sixty pound ugly dog had launched herself high off the ground. She had never done that before.

After a few rounds of frisbee she decided it was time for tug-of-war with my Mom. Again, she took one of her toys – a hot dog shaped thing with about four inches of rope attached to each side – and brought it to my Mom. When she tried to take the toy, Sophia growled and started pulling, relentless in her desire to not let go. There was no doubt she was playing, as her curly-queue tail wagged the whole time non-stop. Whenever the dog sensed my mother not having the strength or stamina to continue, Sophia would let up the amount of force she was using to pull the toy, and let my Mother regain the upper hand for a while before returning to her normal level of play aggression. Sophia eased up and clamped back down in succession for a few minutes until my Mother was tire out.

To the casual viewer the DVD was just another homemade movie of a dog playing, but to me it was a sign of something far more significant. My dog was taking steps, making gains. She had adapted to her new surroundings and was uncovering new talents. She also realized that others might not have the same amount of strength to play at the levels she did, and adjusted for it.

She was adapting. She was becoming flexible in her surroundings.

One hour ago, I didn't know she could jump, yet Sophia was regularly getting a good three feet off the ground. One hour ago, I didn’t know she had an aggression level other than “high” when it came to playing, but here she was backing off when she saw my Mother fatigued.

That’s how talented dogs survived. They adapted. They remained flexible.
____________________________________________________________________________________

I’d found a need to be flexible as well, having investigated a myriad of ways to legally remain in the country and still work and draw a paycheck from TWBA/Chiat in Toronto. My options were limited, but my best hope of staying on would mean resigning my current staff position and then being re-hired as a long-term freelancing independent contractor. The company’s term for it was “permalancing”.

“Are you sure you want to do it this way?” asked our manager Catherine, flanked by Suleman and Margot. The four of us tried to remain as comfortable as possible in her cramped office.

“I’ve investigated all the angles, and aside from a sponsorship-driven deal which Suleman and Margot have both told me won’t fly, this was the last option,” I replied. I shifted in my seat. My wallet was digging a hole in my ass and I wished I had transferred it earlier to my inside coat pocket.

“By becoming a permalancer it means you won't be receiving any of the benefits of a staff member. You won't be paying payroll taxes which mean you won't get a medical coverage card, and there’s no 401k TWBA will be contributing to. None of that.”

“Yeah, I’m aware all of that is up to me to fund on my own, but isn’t that one of the reasons I can negotiate a higher day rate for myself? You won’t be paying all that?”

“Somebody’s done a little research,” Suleman announced.

“Well yeah, if I’m going to do it this way then I want to know all the scenarios. But I figure if you’ll give me a day rate of about $325 then I’ll have a sum where I can pay my own taxes, contribute to an IRA, and be left with what I’m currently making after taxes. As for medical, I’m young and healthy. There’s no better time than now to exploit that.”

I looked around the room and watched the three of them wrestle with the numbers and the concepts in their head. There really wouldn’t be much hardball involved. They wanted me, and I wanted them. It was a simple equation.

Margot spoke first. “Legal will want a contract specifying term length and all the specifics.”

The three nodded their heads. “They’ll also want a rider for when the account drags out longer than eighteen months. We can’t assume that once the eighteen is done you go riding off into the sunset if work remains,” Catherine added.

“As long as I’m getting paid.”

Catherine looked over at Suleman as he nervously played with his beard. “What is it?”

“I’m worried about the x factor - Gloria. Once she finds out Reed is resigning, and why, she is going to raise holy hell. Gloria won't give him up so easily. I get that feeling. For all we know Anna’s already gone back to Los Angeles and announced your intended defection. Relations between us and them may take a hit for a little while.”

I went around the room gauging their silent responses. Apparently this was something the three had given much thought to, and though they weren’t willing to publicly admit the political hot button they were about to push, they knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

“You know guys, I’m going to have to return to Los Angeles in order to give my notice,” I began. “I’m also going back so I can pack and drive a Uhaul full of my belongings back here. While I’m there I’ll talk to Gloria. I’ll tell her my reasons and why this is the right fit for me. Besides, they’re not losing me forever. The Coke account could end a year-and-a-half from now and I might decide I want to go back. I’m sure they’d have no hesitation rehiring me. I’ve been a good employee.”

Margot shook her head. “You can’t think like that. That’s just engaging in 'what ifs'. A lot could happen between now and then. You could stay. You could go. You could even get released early from your contract, it has happened here before.” She put her coffee mug on the table. “Just keep an open mind and remain flexible about your opportunities.”

We agreed in principle to our plan. Suleman said he’d have to run it up the ladder but didn’t anticipate any resistance. He also had to get the ball rolling with legal. Soon I’d be able to fly home. I would have to resign and pack up my entire life. The clock was ticking.
____________________________________________________________________________________

I had lied to Carolyn. It was a little white lie, but it was a lie nonetheless. I’d offered to cook dinner at her place not as a nice gesture as I had claimed, not so I could coax her into her bedroom, just feet away, as I had declared, but because I was yearning for a home-cooked meal so badly that I was ready to do or say anything to get one. Don’t knock it; after four and a half months of eating at restaurants and cramming fast food down my pie hole I’d become so desensitized towards prepared food that the only thing that could shake me from the doldrums was a home-cooked meal, even if I had to prepare it myself. When Carolyn recommended a new Chinese fusion restaurant on the edge of Chinatown, I instead suggested cooking for her.

“Oh?” she said, eyebrows raised. “I can’t remember the last time anybody cooked for me. My own roommate doesn’t even cook for me.”

“Then kick her out for the night and it will be just us.” She eagerly agreed.

The sliced duck lay searing in the oversized skillet, awaiting the garlic and hoisin sauce I’d concocted from memory, having had it years ago at a nouveau-Asian restaurant in Newport Beach. I believed the proportions were correct. I poured a generous dollop of Coppola 2003 Pinot Noir into the pan, setting aside the rest of the bottle for the meal. Thank God online wine retailers shipped to Canada; the Canuck supply of wine was atrocious.

Carolyn sat in her living room, reclined on the sofa and going through a collection of photos.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help in there?” she offered.

“No, some of us guys can cook you know. We’re not all helpless idiots.”

“Okay, give me a shout if you change your mind.”

“You can set the table,” I said. “That’s not cooking related.”

Carolyn came into the kitchen and sniffed the air while she removed plates from a cabinet. “Mmm, smells good,” she declared. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek on the way to her kitchen table.

“You know what’s been the best part of this week?” She asked. I shook my head. “Going to school and seeing my work on that big billboard overlooking Gardiner near Jarvis street. It’s so surreal, but so very cool. And Emmy, oh does she make that ad sing.”

“You did a good job. Everybody was very impressed with your work. Which one was it?”

"The one with her in the fur wrap on the balcony with the cart of Absolut Orange behind her. The flesh tones really came out nicely."

She made her way back into the kitchen for silverware, stopping to wrap her arms around my waist. “Can you believe that was just five weeks ago? And it was just four weeks ago I tackled you in the grass outside the church at Angie’s wedding.”

“Any regrets there?” I asked.

“Yeah, that I didn’t do it sooner.” She smacked my ass and opened the utensil drawer.

“Don’t distract the cook please,” I joked, sticking my tongue out.

Carolyn pulled the envelope from my back pocket that she felt when she smacked me. “What is this?” she asked.

“It’s an invitation. Well, really more a 'keep the date' announcement. My friend Aaron and his fiancée Vanessa are getting married. It’s not until September but I guess it’s all the rage to send an announcement ahead of the invite. You know what? You should come. I’m supposed to be the best man, that is unless Aaron has changed his mind.”

Carolyn smiled. “That would be nice, but how do you know we’ll still be seeing each other in September?”

“You think we won’t?”

“I’d like nothing better, but...uh,” she paused and took a sip of wine. “I know your penchant for short-lived relationships.”

“That was only in cases where the women were shallow and without substance. They were women who bored me.” I put the stirring spoon down. “Whatever makes you think you’re one of those kind of women?”

Carolyn shrugged and lowered her head. She was uncertain. She was thinking about 'what ifs'. I had to snap into action.

“Think about it,” I said, taking Carolyn by the hand, “you and me in Los Angeles. I could show you around the place, I could show you more out-of-the-way things than any tour book could offer. LACMA, the best restaurants, rooftop drinks at the Skyy Room, standing on the beach where Santa Monica meets Malibu and Sunset Boulevard ends its snakelike, downward turns in front of Gladstone’s. We would go anywhere you want to go. We could go south to Trabuco Canyon, where there’s nothing but wilderness and open trails, and then in the middle of nowhere sits a small bar with always at least twenty Harley motorcycles parked out front. It’s a city with the coolest and the hippest and the strangest and the most breathtaking all in one. And I want to show it to you.”

Carolyn raised her head and gave me a long kiss. Slow, long, forceful. When we broke she said, “That sounds wonderful. And there’s nobody I’d like to show it to me more than you.” She was coming around to the idea. It just took the right sell. Carolyn was a romantic at heart. Sometimes to be heard you just had to communicate on that level.

“Oh! I got you something.” Carolyn opened a cabinet and removed a box.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” I responded.

“Yes I did, and I wanted to.” She opened the box, which contained two smaller boxes, both wrapped. One was obviously liquor. The other, I couldn’t be certain.

I opened the first one, a bottle of 12-year single barrel Glenmorangie scotch.

“Wow. Do I have to share this with you?” I asked, a large smirk on my face.

“Mind you I know nothing about scotch, but I’m willing to learn.”

“You’ve started on the right foot,” I replied. I opened the second box. It was a sampler pack of Montecristo Toros cigars. I examined the branded print on the side of the cedar box: Hecho a mano en La Habana.

“They’re Cuban,” said Carolyn. “We have no embargo here so I thought you might like them.”

This girl was something.

“I didn’t get you anything,” I confessed.

“Sure you did. You are making me dinner and giving me the pleasure of your company.” She flashed a wicked grin. “Plus, I own your body tonight,” she added with a laugh.

She returned to setting the table and then came back into the kitchen while I finished the duck. “So what’s going on with the apartment search?” she asked.

“Not much success, but I’m remaining flexible with my expectations. There are two that I’d say are solid backups, but nothing that’s said ‘this is the place’ to me. There was one I was supposed to look at tonight but I blew it off. I can look this weekend.”

Carolyn put down her wine glass. “Wait. You could have gone looking for a place to live in for the next eighteen months but kissed it off to have dinner with me?”

“Yeah. Aren’t I thoughtful?”

“No! That’s boneheaded. Look, I like you – a lot – and I love the time we spend together but it’s important you keep the priorities you have. Don’t ever lazily cast aside a priority in your life for me. Never ever.” She grabbed my chin and turned it to face hers. “Got it?”

This girl was something, I repeated to myself. I’d already forgotten the name Elizabeth.
____________________________________________________________________________________

Saturday. June 4th. It would be a busy day. I rose bright and early, knowing I had a lot of apartments to look at if I expected to find something. My timetable was becoming cramped; originally I was hoping to have something lined up to move into on July 1st. I’d fly back to Los Angeles and turn in my resignation which would take effect by the 20th. I would pack up what belongings I wanted to move across the country and try to sell those I didn’t, and leave town by the 25th. I’d mapped out a route that would take me across the country and into Canada through Detroit. I’d arrive just in time to get the keys to my new place.

The longer the search, the longer the wait, and the longer the whole ordeal became. But today I was determined. Today I’d beat the pavement. I had a whole arsenal of apartment hunting magazines, and five-days worth of copies of both the Toronto Globe and Mail, and the Toronto Star.

As usual, the search started badly. The first place I looked at was literally a shoebox, the second a rat trap. The third had a kitchen and bathroom trapped in 1978, and was littered with brown, thick shag carpeting. I looked for signs of a disco ball having been there.

After lunch things began to pick up: An apartment in St. Lawrence Market situated atop a retail store had just gone on the market, and it was fairly spacious. I was surprised by how quiet it was given its location above a furniture store. But it wasn’t me. I didn’t require lavishness, but I did require something with a little personality. Another one, a studio in the Fashion District just up the block from King station offered more hope. It was a nice, open floorplan, with a generous amount of windows and cement flooring. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about the dog fouling the carpet. It was ultra-modern, ultra-industrial. It was also a straight shot to the office and its proximity to the streetcar station was ideal.

“No animals,” the landlord said flatly.

“Really. Not at all? Not even with an additional deposit?” I was puzzled. The floors were cement and everything else was either brick, stucco, or steel. What could a dog possibly do to this compound?

“No. It is our policy not to allow animals,” she replied. She sounded like she wasn’t going to budge. I had to take them off my list.

After checking another opportunity in the Fashion District I had to write the whole area off altogether. It was no use. The back page of one of the apartment guides showed a high rise in Queen’s West, but it looked a little pricey. I hated when they didn't list prices as a way of roping you in. I had no choice; I’d have to check it out.

“The apartment is well-appointed, with it’s south facing windows and open kitchen layout, and a separate bedroom/bathroom area divided by a long, private hallway. This gives you the freedom and privacy of having separate entertaining and living areas." She was right. It was a well-thought design. The kitchen wasn’t the most modern one I’d seen, but it did have all the must-haves. I slid the door lock on the dishwasher and lowered the door. Clean, well kept. The stove and microwave were in similar condition.

“Do you allow dogs?” I asked.

“Smaller ones, yes. There is an additional deposit we require.”

“Of course. My dog is about this big,” I replied, forming the general shape of Sophia with my hands.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she answered.

We walked around the apartment as I asked her all the questions she normally fielded: Broadband internet available? Gas or electrical appliances and furnace? Propane pilot in the faux fireplace? We walked into the lone bedroom. It was a good size, bigger than my bedroom back home. I pictured my bed and dresser in one corner and Sophia’s crate in another. The bathroom was good enough, and the hallway had a walk-in closet, the one thing my current apartment lacked. This was it. This was my plan A.

“Would it be available for move-in on July first?” I asked.

“Yes. Earlier if necessary,” she replied. “It’s already been cleaned. We just have to run a credit check and go through the regular formalities.”

I thought about what the next few weeks would bring. I thought about moving. I thought about having to disconnect all my services in one city and hooking them up in another. I thought about mail forwarding. I wondered how much a moving truck would cost. I hoped the walk from the apartment building to the streetcar station was close enough during winter to ward off the foul weather. I estimated how much additional clothing and miscellaneous things I’d acquired since I’d been here that littered my hotel room. They would need to be moved. I figured I’d have to buy Sophia some kind of dog coat; Sharpeis don’t have a fur coat by definition, it’s more fine hair. She’d need protection from the elements.

This was it. This was the opportunity I was waiting for and I had to run with it.

“Let’s fill out the credit app,” I told the woman.

I walked back to the hotel from the apartment; it was only three miles of zig-zagging through lower mid city but I needed the exercise. I knew once I touched down in Los Angeles the clock would be ticking and my time would be short. I thought of my friends and who I’d get the chance to say goodbye to in person. Of course there were some musts, like Michelle, and Devin and Allan; Aaron and his fiancée Vanessa; Melinda and Doug from work; and Samantha from college days. She’d be glad to know I was seeing somebody in Toronto, even if she wasn’t the one to fix it up. I’d go see Rebecca – she’d been looking in on my place while I was gone – and for a moment remembered the short but insanely erotic time we had together. I couldn’t pass up saying goodbye to Lisa, the bartender from Townhouse Bar. We had been each other’s shoulder to cry on for the longest time. If I could squeeze him in I’d go out to the peninsula to wish Ken Cross all the luck in the world. He was the most successful guy my age I’d ever known. There was no reason he wouldn’t continue to be that way. There were many others I’d met and talked to along the way. I hoped to have the opportunity to get together with as many as possible. I hoped I had the time.

As I approached the main concourse leading to the hotel I went over a revised timeline for the next few weeks. On Monday, perhaps Tuesday I would sign the contract with TWBA/Chiat here in Toronto. Towards the end of the week I'd put down a deposit on the apartment in Queen's West and by Friday I’d be on a plane back to Los Angeles and in position to resign from my post there at Chiat. By the 25th I’d be packed and on my way back to Toronto in a rented Uhaul stuffed high with my belongings, my car in tow.

It was now or never. I was ready.

When I got back to the hotel Olivia was behind the front desk killing time, talking with one of the bellman. I waved and she motioned me over.

“Think you want some company tonight?” she asked. She slightly licked her lips and played with hair, tucking it behind her shoulder.

I smiled and put my hands flat on the counter. “At the risk of you reading something into my response, I’m going to politely decline. You’re a fun person to be with Olivia, but tonight I prefer to seal myself off in my room. Maybe practice my guitar some, I’ve been negligent in that area.” I waved to the bellman and told Olivia I’d talk to her later.

“I wonder who she is,” I heard Olivia mutter to bellman when she thought I was out of earshot.
____________________________________________________________________________________

The ringing phone stirred me from my sleep. When did I fall asleep? What time was is it? Did I sleep through the night? I looked over at the clock; it read 12:07. Ugh. Who the hell was calling?

It wasn’t until then I realized it was my cell phone ringing. I hadn’t received a call on my cell in months. I didn’t even know why I left the thing on.

Without looking at the caller ID I picked it up. “Hello?”

There was a slight pause. “Hello?” I repeated.

“Hey, Reed! How are you?” It was my brother. He never called. And even when he had something important to talk about it was his wife Marie who made the call and he would jump in towards the end with his news.

“Peter...hi. It’s after midnight here. Saturday. At least I think it’s still Saturday. What’s going on?”

“Oh, just wanted to see how you are holding up,” he replied. Was he serious? At midnight on a Saturday night? “How’s life in Toronto? Are you coming back?”

“No. I mean yes.” I was groggy. How long had I been asleep? I didn’t even remember laying down. “I was going to be done with a project, but I latched on to another that’s going to keep me here longer. Long enough to require moving, but I’ll have to come home to pack and stuff.”

“How quickly could you come back?” Peter asked.

“Come back? Aren’t you listening? I have a life here. I’m getting my own place, I have a gig that will keep me here for another year, probably more. There’s a girl in town I’ve been seeing and that’s going well. Plus, to come back I would have to fly and you know how crazy I am about doing that. Sheesh.” Why wasn’t he listening?

“That’s great, kid...uh...but...they have daily flights out of Toronto, right?”

I bristled. I hated when he called me ‘kid.’

“Yeah, sure. Why, you wanna come visit? Just say so, it's a fun town,” I said. Apparently I was still too tired, too groggy to read between the lines.

Peter paused on the other line, and let out a heavy sigh. “No, I wish it were that. Can you get on a flight?”

I started to get concerned. “What’s going on Peter?” I raised my voice.

Peter paused again. He sounded so distant, so despondent, even though his voice was crystal clear.

“Well you see...it’s...tonight...and...how do I say this,” he trailed off.

“Peter, focus!” I got nervous. “What is it?”

Finally he focused and regained his composure. “It’s Dad. Heart attack. Just over an hour ago. They’ve got him at St. John’s hospital." He paused and I heard him take a labored swallow. Maybe he was trying to fight off tears. Maybe his nerves were shot.

"You’ve got to come home, kid. He’s dying.”