The Lime-Tree Bower.
(aka I'm Lame And I Need A Title)

by Julian Fong

Note: many characters and events described herein are based on real
incidents, not out of any real intent to do so, but because the author
began to panic due to finding out he had no real sense of imagination,
especially when under a looming deadline. Therefore, anyone reading
this and offended by a resemblance to themselves should hereby accept
the author's humblest apologies - unless you're Paul's brother, in
which case the author hopes you rot in hell.  And thereby ends the
foreword (and also, a quite clever attempt to bump up the word count
by exactly one hundred words).




Chapter One

On an otherwise unremarkable October morning, marked only by the
cessation of the steady depressing drizzle so typical for Vancouver at
this time of year, Todd Castle finds himself precariously balanced on
top one of the towers of Lions Gate Bridge. He has carefully climbed
the suspension cables to get where he is - no mean feat, that - and is
now in a position where a single step in either direction means a
fatal plunge.

In his current state - a mop of short brown hair eerily backlit by the
bridge's harsh purple lighting, breath coming in ragged gasps, eyelids
spastically blinking away tears, sweat dripping from his brow - a
casual observer might see nothing but a dangerous person, and leave it
at that while slowly backing away. At his best though, Todd would be
considered somewhat more handsome than the norm. He is twenty five
years old, and has the look of a man who has spent most of his life
avoiding physical activity, yet somehow managing to avoid going to
seed due to genetic luck - though the same luck hasn't extended to his
gradually receding hairline. In short, he is of medium height, slight
build, but obviously not fit; the task of climbing cables in the cold
air has taken quite a toll on him. Except for a few freckles across
the bridge of his nose and two obvious dimples which lend him a
somewhat boyish expression, Todd has fairly bland facial features
which normally give few hints as to his inner emotions. Even now, when
he is experiencing emotions made of equal parts fear, anger, and
desperation, one could for a moment ignore the other external signs,
and judge by his stoic face that he is his usual, unperturbed self.

Todd is at the moment engaged in a silent debate with himself. He is
considering in which direction he should take that final step: should
he aim for the span itself, over a hundred feet below him, or perhaps
leap towards the water, which is twice the distance?  He can see
distinct advantages for each, and ponders whether the harder surface
of the asphalt would make up for the reduced falling distance. (Todd
would be the first to admit that he is not well versed in physics.)
Like many of his internal discussions, it is mostly an academic one;
Todd first and foremost thinks of himself as a considerate person, one
who tries hard not to unduly inconvenience others, and he shudders at
the thought of the lasting psychological damage delivered to any
witnesses of the sight of his body colliding with the pavement - not
to mention the effect that the impact would have on the already
fragile infrastructure of Lions Gate. He is even now feeling mild
pangs of anguish for leaving his own vehicle parked smack in the
middle of the three lane madness that is Lions Gate Bridge at the
height of rush hour. Already, he can see the lights of cars backed up
all the way through Stanley Park, and hear the honkings and heated
altercations taking place between motorists.

One of these motorists is fed up enough to roll down his window and
direct his ire upwards. Neither Todd nor the motorist can see each
other, but the shouted words carry far on the cold autumn air: "Hey
asshole, just jump already!"

Normally, Todd would be irked by these words, and even more so by the
honks and shouts of agreement which follow. Just how insensitive can
you be, and still justify calling yourself human? But this time, he
can't help but agree: he really should just jump already, and allow
these innocent motorists to get back home to their families and
dinners.

Todd sighs, shifts his weight towards the side of the tower facing the
water, shakes out his cold-stiffened muscles, tries to still his
breathing, and resumes his silent reverie.




Chapter Two

(FIXME: somehow we need to establish Todd buses to work.)

Todd's day begins when he gets to work half an hour early, as opposed
to his usual routine of getting there half an hour late. Todd
immediately knows something is amiss when he realises Mr. McIntyre is
not milling around the front of the store.

Todd is a clerk in a small convenience store located in the heart of
one of Vancouver's lower middle class neighbourhoods on the East
Side. Normally, this would be a typical mom and pop operation, except
that mom and pop are a rich Taiwanese couple who have bought the store
in the hopes of expediting their immigration to Canada, and could care
less about actually running the day to day affairs. So they have
delegated operations, and as a result Todd finds himself the sole
proprietor on weekdays.

Todd checks his watch - it is 9:35 am, by his mark; the advertised
store hours are 9 to 6.  By now, the elderly Mr. McIntyre should be
here to take up his leading role in the daily morning ritual: waving
his cane threateningly, he mutters under his breath about false
advertising while Todd unlocks the newspaper drop box; an exchange of
fifty cents is made for a copy of the Province; Todd goes inside and
opens up while Mr. McIntyre walks off with his hard earned
prize. However, on this morning, the old coot is strangely absent.  As
Todd reaches for his keychain to unlock the drop box, he experiences a
moment of concern. Perhaps Mr. McIntyre has passed away over the
weekend? The moment passes quickly; the man has probably found a
different store to buy his paper at, just like he's always threatened.

Todd opens the box to discover the papers aren't even here; the
delivery man is late again. It seems even more fortunate that
Mr. McIntyre isn't here, since the lack of newspapers has in the past
caused a heightening of the situation than is normally played out here
every morning. Todd fervently hopes that the delivery man shows up
soon, unlocks the entrance, goes inside and flips the sign from
"Closed - Come Again!" to "Open For Business!". 

As he turns on the fluorescent lighting of the building and adjusts to
the sudden glare, he can hear the drop box being opened, the solid
thunk of the papers being thrown inside, and the lid being banged shut
again. Todd runs out to accost the delivery driver as he steps back
into the truck.

"Hey! You're late. Again!"

"No I'm not. You're early." The driver (a young man barely out of his
teens) yawns, shifts gears, and prepares to drive off.

"What? It's nine thirty!"

"It's eight thirty - oh, daylight savings time getcha? Last Sunday of
the month, right? Hey, don't forget the bill for October, it's at the
bottom of the box. Seeya."

The delivery man drives off, leaving Todd standing there
speechless. He should have known the time was wrong; he had
specifically left a note to himself on the fridge to set his clocks
back on Saturday evening, which was entirely ignored on Sunday. Not
that this hasn't happened before: Todd is ideologically opposed to the
idea of daylight savings time (or more specifically, to the idea of it
not being applied throughout the year), and has vociferously argued
the point to anyone willing to listen. It is especially galling to him
that for someone stuck indoors during most days, the precious few
hours of light left to him at the end of the working shift are reduced
even more in the winter, forcing him to drive home and spend his
evenings in complete darkness.

He sighs, grabs the papers (remembering to extricate the bill from the
rotting leaves at the bottom of the box) and walks back into the
store. Todd's daytime prison is a utilitarian building, quite out of
place in comparison to its residential surroundings. Large acrylic
windows protected with iron bars form the face of the storefront. The
original glass has been broken too many times to count, and it's not
clear why a transparent replacement was bothered with, since the view
is mostly obscured by shelves filled with chips and other snacks.  A
large green plastic awning in front tints any remaining sunlight
entering the store with a strange hue, while high up above hangs the
large metal sign bearing the store name: Smythe Groceries. Built in
the early seventies by someone with a fanatical dedication to hockey
(hence the name, which had nothing to do with the surnames of former
proprietors), it has survived two previous owners before being bought
out by the current foreign investors. In over three decades, it has
never been so much as repainted. The interior is really just a single
small room, with a floor which was once white but is now stubbornly
grey with decades of collected grime. Rickety, handmade wooden shelves
bearing assorted dry goods line the walls. A large cooler filled with
soft drinks is one of the few modern appliances, courtesy of the
Coca-Cola bottling company; almost everything else, from the dairy
fridge to the ice cream freezer to the broken grocery scales, is old,
barely functional, and very noisy.

Todd lines up the papers on the display rack next to the door, takes a
copy for himself, flips the switch on the coffee maker (replacing the
filter and grounds is part of his closing routine), and sits in front
of the cigarette rack behind the counter. A Formica topped plywood
affair which appears to have been yet another refrigeration unit to
begin with, its surface is dominated on one side by an antiquated cash
register, adorned with bad cheques and sticky notes filled with
crabbed writing describing the prices of various items. A clear space
in the center is covered with a transparent plastic case filled with
scratch & win lottery tickets, which also doubles as a surface for
monetary transactions. Next to that is a lottery terminal, used for
validation of the very same tickets as well as for managing the other
games collectively under the umbrella of the B.C. Lottery
Corporation. Candy of all sorts (boxed waxy confections, licorice, and
bagged penny candy) covers the rest of the counter.

Todd lays out the tabloid-format paper on the counter, glances at the
headline, and shakes his head sadly. As is quite typical for The
Province, the banner headline screams 'Chretien Attacked With Pie!',
next to a large picture of the Prime Minister with the remnants of a
cream pie hanging off his face. In the upper corner is a small
headline about the latest crisis in the Mideast; in another corner is
the picture of the paper's resident right wing demagogue; underneath
is headline promising yet another column skewering the moderately
centrist policies of the current provincial government.
Unfortunately, Todd is forced to put up with the news filtered through
the Province, as not enough of his customers purchase the marginally
better Sun (let alone the somewhat respectable Globe and Mail). He has
tried to convince his clientele about the virtues of better
journalism, but for the better part, they refuse to abandon the
convenience of the tabloid format provided by The Province;
apparently, table space is a premium when it comes to having to unfold
the competition's layout. And as the delivery van refuses to handle
less than five Suns a day - despite the fact that both papers are
owned and published by the same company - Todd is forced to put up
with what he feels to be an overwhelming bias towards human interest
stories, as opposed to actual news.

He has just enough time to digest the leading article (it was a banana
cream pie, the man was arrested, and the PM was uninjured) before the
coffee finishes brewing. He pours himself a cup, sloshes the rest into
the serving thermos, and hears the chimes tinkle as the door opens
behind him - it's Mr. McIntyre. An elderly man with bushy whiskers, an
obvious hearing aid, and a loud (though creaky) voice, his beet red
pallor and gin blossom nose suggests evenings spent in the company of
a bottle. Todd guesses by this that the man is a widower, but no
personal information has even been volunteered to confirm that guess,
nor has it ever been solicited.

Mr. McIntyre grabs a paper and shuffles towards the counter.

"Mornin'. Early for once, hunh?" croaks Mr. McIntyre.

"Yes, I suppose," replies Todd as he walks back behind the counter,
closing the wattle gate behind him.

"Ha. It's nice to see things changing for the better around here."

"I suppose so."

"I suppose so," sneers Mr. McIntyre as he mimics Todd's phrasing. "Is
that all you can say? Boy, it's a joke. Lighten up." He looks Todd up
and down, and continues, "If only I were your age. Do you know how old
I am?"

"Sorry, I can't begin to guess."

"C'mon, guess!"

"You're seventy five?"

"Ha! I'm eighty six. Boy, how old are you?"

"Twenty five."

"When I was twenty five, I had a sense of humor.  Can't you crack a
smile every once in a while? You should be happy for your customers,
might have better business around here."

Todd is mute and stony faced.

"Ah, youth is wasted on the young. Anyways, I hope these early hours
continue, young man, because I just might keep my business here after
all. You should count yourself real lucky."

He tosses two quarters on the counter, snorts derisively, and shuffles
out the door again.

Todd suppresses the urge to mutter something rude about exactly how
much the ten cents to be made from Mr. McIntyre's daily business
really affect the bottom line, and goes back to reading his paper and
sipping his coffee. After all, the daily ritual has been played out -
and for once, it's been almost pleasant.




Chapter Three

It is now nearing 10 am, and the morning's business has been brisk -
mostly the usual rush of nicotine addicts, jonsing for their daily
fix.

The rack behind Todd is stocked with over twenty brands of different
cigarettes, with some brands having more than ten different varieties
- deluxe, regular, king size, menthols, 100s, medium, lights, extra
lights, ultra lights, and various permutations - such as Benson and
Hedges Deluxe Menthol Ultra Lights 100 - or just "Benson and Hedges,
green stripe" as its aficionados are wont to call it. As Todd is more
or less trusted with all the business decisions of the place, he finds
it worthwhile stocking all these different varieties for two
compelling reasons: first, that smokers are notoriously particular and
will actually make good on blustered threats by take their business
elsewhere if they can't find their brand. Second, the greatest part of
the income of the store's business is derived from cigarette sales. No
other product sold comes close to nicotine's combination of profit
margins, volume, and ease of sale.

Todd regularly wrestles with the ethical dilemma of making a living
selling a product that leads to nothing but cancer and death. On the
one hand, he feels that if he must sell the things, he should at least
hand over the package along with a stern but friendly warning about
the health risks involved.  Fortunately, he is helped by the fact that
Canadian law now requires all cigarette packaging be decorated with
large, gruesome photos depicting the results of a lifetime of smoking
- Todd is literally surrounded by pictures of rotting teeth and
aborted fetuses. While he wavers on whether or not tobacco companies
are truly evil (his opinion is still out on the subject of youth
targeted advertising) he grudgingly admits that it is hard to believe
cigarette smokers actually think what they're doing isn't hazardous to
their health. Not that he believes nicotine isn't addictive. He sees
proof of its power every day, and on numerous occasions has patiently
listened to people promising to quit, only to find them coming back
into the store the next day for another four packs of smokes.

If Todd were to be placed in charge of an antismoking campaign trying
to show that nicotine was truly addictive, Todd would be hard pressed
to find a better poster child than the man who has just entered the
store. Todd doesn't know his name; he just thinks of him as the
Cyborg. The Cyborg is a fairly stout man in his forties, mustached and
well dressed; nothing at all robotic in his appearance at first
glance. Until he pulls out a shiny metal tube, presses the end of it
to his throat, and intones, in an electronic voice devoid of all
intonation or humanity:

"THREE ROTHMAN'S REDS. PLEASE."

Todd nods and reaches up for three packages of Rothman's Lights. he
tries to think of some sort of platitude that would allow him to
convey his (hitherto yet unexpressed) sympathies for his fellow man's
condition, his admiration for the Cyborg's noble battle with throat
cancer, his support for the Cyborg's (equally unexpressed, totally
imaginary) legal battle with the evil corporations responsible. But as
usual, Todd can think of nothing better than:

"Fifteen dollars please. Nice weather we're having isn't it?" (Todd
cringes inwardly as soon as he says this, as it's really not a very
nice day by any stretch of the imagination.)

"YES. NICE WEATHER. THANK YOU."

The Cyborg scoops up his purchases and walks out the door. 



Chapter Four

Todd has never aspired to be a grocery store clerk. At his lowest
moments, he doesn't like to dwell on where his life has ended up: as a
profit obsessed storekeeper, thinking only of the bottom line, while
fighting off the temptation to unleash torrents of verbal abuse.

One of Todd's earliest memories is that of himself as a young boy
bouncing on his mother's knee, while she softly sang "Que Sera Sera"
to herself and to her son. While the lyrics weren't quite fitting for
one of his gender, he often did apply his hyperactive imagination
towards trying to figure out what he should be when he grew up. And as
one weaned on a diet of Warner Brothers cartoons shown on Saturday
morning TV, he found himself identifying strongly with a particular
Chuck Jones hero, Ralph Phillips: a young boy sent to his room after
breaking a window who begins to fantasize elaborately about his life
as a famous explorer rescuing his parents from cannibals, or as a
patriotic test pilot who defeats a Martian invasion and rescues
humanity. (The last segment with a boy in a wig advancing towards a
cherry true clutching an axe never made much sense to him, so he
tended to ignore that part.)

As Todd entered the higher grades, he found himself wondering about
his future career to the point of obsession - increasingly so as he
realised the age of famous explorers was long past, and discovered
little aptitude within himself for the subjects necessary to become a
test pilot. When Todd was in grade ten, his high school career
counselor subjected him to a vocational test, which conclusively
showed that Todd would most likely find happiness in employment in the
fields of Recreational Protective Services, Government Property
Inspection, or Metal Pickling Equipment Operation - all choices which
shared little in common save for few physical demands and providing
limited opportunities for human interaction.

Given these results, it is not surprising that he developed into an
introverted boy in high school, preferring to remain quiet and
unnoticed, although this didn't stop him from being well liked by his
fellow classmates. His decent enough grades allowed him to continue
his education at the University of British Columbia, where he
surprised and disappointed his parents by choosing to major in
anthropology, with an emphasis on archaelogy. Todd has always been
interested in human behaviour from the perspective of a detached
outsider, and (perhaps a left over from his explorer-fantasizing days)
is terribly in love with the idea of reconstructing ancient cultures
based on just a few tantalizing clues. He has never wished to emulate
Heinrich Schliemann, however; he is much more interested in
reconstructing and thinking about everyday lives, rather than
rediscovering Troy. One of his happiest summers as a student was spent
sifting through layer after layer of dirt on an ancient dig in the
interior of B.C., painstakingly charting the locations and types of
discarded shellfish in order to reconstruct the dietary patterns of
people who once lived there five thousand years ago.

After graduation, Todd spent a couple of years as a researcher at the
university's anthropology museum, making ends meet by taking on
additional teaching assistant duties. Thanks to help from his folks,
he managed to finish school without incurring any debt, but feels
obligated to help out his retired parents wherever he can, and has
never felt comfortable living at home (not because he dislikes his
parents, but neither does he like to feel like a burden). He has
therefore preferred modest apartments in the suburbs (Richmond for a
half year, Burnaby for the rest), living from paycheque to paycheque,
typically making enough to cover his rent and groceries and not much
beyond.

Thanks to budget cuts at the university, Todd's position was
eliminated a year ago. (It is still a sore point for him that the
university was able to afford a brand new, state of the art computer
science building, but could not allocate resources to the preservation
of Haida art and culture.) He was forced to live at home for several
months, until his current girlfriend suggested that he work at her
parents' latest investment. After some awkward weeks, Todd found
himself in his current position, and enjoying the feeling of being
able to pay the rent once more on a single bedroom flat.

With his academic background, and a total lack of retail experience,
Todd found it a slow and painful transition to the world of grocery
store clerkdom. He has surprised himself by discovering an untapped
potential for numbers - he studiously avoided mathematics in school,
but finds he is easily capable of computing change on the fly
(necessary, since the cash register won't do it for him), as well as
computing seven percent of most any amount (Goods and Services
Tax). As Todd does all the banking and accounting, deals with
inventory and suppliers - in short, just runs the entire place - he
has also quickly learned quite a bit about economics, finance, and
practical business management while on the job.

And yet, Todd can't help but think all of this is for nought when
faced with the constant daily drudgery. Todd is not a people person,
and doesn't have the skills necessary for dealing with impatient or
rude customers without taking it personally. He's lost track of the
number of times that a customer has made a disparaging remark to the
effect that Todd is only in this job because he's ill-educated. He
doesn't consider himself smarter than anyone else (he tends to chuckle
whenever he catches himself thinking this, remembering a fiery
encounter between a calculus studying gas jockey and the thug from
Robocop); but nonetheless, he takes a certain pride in having finished
a university degree, and is quick to be annoyed when someone is crass
enough to assume otherwise.

As the Cyborg walks out the door, Todd discovers he's about to have
his patience tested yet again. He can see another man stepping out of
a parked car outdoors. Todd groans audibly at the sight of a stack of
tickets clutched in his hands - lottery tickets.

If cigarettes are easy money, then lotto is just as equally difficult
and unrewarding. Todd is aware that the lottery run under the aspect
of the BC government earns much needed health care dollars for the
province, but doesn't particularly care for being a cog in that
machinery; if anything, he'd almost rather pay higher taxes.  The
lottery demands that Todd devote regular study not only to the
complicated terminal that sits on the counter, but also to memorizing
the rules of all new games that comes out; this helps in convincing
irate customers why the winning numbers don't count if they're
scattered across different tickets (something that Todd has had to
explain more than once). As well, Todd also finds the paperwork a
tedious chore. The Lotto Corporation has paranoid policies about
accounting, requiring duplicate paperwork for everything (triplicate
for payouts) all of which is meant to be tallied and securely
couriered to headquarters on a daily basis. It all seems hardly worth
the nickel or so paid out per sale - and Todd is too laid back to
bother drumming up sales for that part of the business.

Todd has also concluded that the customers who regularly play lottery
tickets are an annoying lot. Adam Smith quotes pop into his mind every
time a regular player comes in, all full of nervous energy and weird
superstitions which manifest when it comes to selecting scratch and
win tickets out of the counter display case:

"Why don't you pick one for me. Oh. No, don't pick that one. Actually,
not that one either, I don't like the look of it. Nope, that just
won't do. Pick that one."

or:

"That better be the winning ticket, boy. I know you guys are all the
same, you keep the winning tickets for yourselves. Haha. Just
kidding."

or Todd's personal nightmare:

"I don't want the ones in the case. I want you to get me a brand new
sheet, and tear off every 4th ticket, except I don't want the ones
that end in 6s or 9s."

Today's lotto customer enters the store and silently pushes the pile
of tickets across the counter. Todd doesn't recognize him, which is
yet another source of annoyance: a stack of validations from
Saturday's drawing, and most likely no purchases, just wants his cash
immediately, wham bam thank you sir. Todd sighs and begins to feed
each sheet through the machine, smoothing out the wrinkled corners,
punching in the last four digits of the serial number on each ticket,
stapling the ticket together with the printed confirmation, throwing
the ticket onto the growing pile in the shelf beneath the counter. It
takes him a full ten minutes, during which the customer just stands
there, mesmerized by the keno numbers constantly flowing past the LCD
display of the lottery terminal - the bright red preachings of an
electric messiah.

Todd punches up the earnings - it totals $132.00.

"You have a hundred thirty two dollars. Would you like some tickets?"

"No. Just cash," is the mumbled reply, the first words uttered since
he's walked in. His eyes are still fixed on the steady stream of red
numbers.

Todd looks into the register. A lone twenty sits there next to a
couple of tens. Hundred dollar bills are out of the question; Todd
knows better than to tempt fate. He sighs again, reaches below the
counter into the money envelope for a stack of rubber banded fives,
and begins to count them out one by one. At this, the man starts
violently and reacts with a vehemence not entirely fitting his small
frame:

"Hey, hey, hey, hey! What the fuck is this? I don't want no fucking
fives! Give me twenties!"

"I'm sorry, but I only have one twenty and one ten - the rest will
have to be fives."

"I don't fucking believe this." Todd notices the mumble is now gone,
replaced by strident tones of outrage.

"Sorry, it's store policy not to have change for more than fifty
dollars."

"Goddamn it. Can you write me a cheque?"

"No, I can't." Actually, Todd does have a book of store cheques that
he uses to pay for deliveries; however he just isn't feeling
particularly generous at the moment.

"Fuck! Okay, just give me ten sets of Quick Picks, and give me the
thirty two bucks. You can spare that, right? I can't believe this."

He gibbers a few more expletives under his breath and glowers at Todd
as he punches on the terminal in quick succession: 1 - 0 - 1 - 0 -
Lucky Draw - Extra - No - Enter. He collects the ten sheets of thermal
paper, freshly imprinted with numbers for lottery's game, along with
the twenty, a ten, and a two dollar coin, and pushes them in a neat
pile across the counter.

"I can't believe you don't keep around no large bills. Never coming
back here again, that's for sure!" is the final Parthian shot as he
stomps out the door.

Todd can only think of the five dollar commission resulting from that
sale, which is far better than anything he was expecting.






Chapter Five

Todd has just finished another lunch of instant noodles. When he first
started working here, he used to be proud of the fact that he
conscientously packed a lunch. Eventually he found himself
occasionally lured by the shiny packages of instant noodles; it
certainly didn't help that the previous store owners conveniently left
behind a hot water heater - but alas, no microwave to adequately
reheat leftovers. Once lured, he has been hooked by cheap
carbohydrates and MSG. Todd has been finding himself eating instant
noodles almost every day now. He sometimes assuages his guilty
conscience by cracking a egg into his bowl and telling himself that
the result is perfectly healthy. He does draw the line at any instant
noodle product which comes with a side packet of palm oil - he can
just feel the stuff coagulate in his arteries (although he can't deny
it tastes pretty good).

The beginning of the afternoon is the long stretch that Todd thinks of
with fear and loathing. Business is slowest then, and Todd usually
takes this opportunity to catch up on his daily reading. Since he has
already exhausted his supply of anthropological journals and has read
the newspaper from cover to cover, he feels justified in indulging in
one of his guilty pleasures: The Weekly World News.

Todd has never been interested in tabloids, or the slightly less
tawdry but glossier magazines normally found in supermarkets. He's
never been interested in the private lives of the rich and famous.
However, ever since he started working here, he has discovered
something far better - the News. It puts all other tabloids to
shame. It dispenses with celebrities, waves a fist at political news,
gives the middle finger to mainstream opinion. Its cheap black and
white printing, obviously doctored photographs, and screaming
headlines all make a mockery of serious journalism. Elvis is a regular
in its pages, as are the Batboy, Wolfman, and the Horsemen of the
Apocalypse who seem to signal the end of the world on a regular
basis. When Todd has nothing else to read (which is often) he will
grab this week's issue from the rack and read through its lurid prose
and wild opinions - it's usually good for killing an hour or so.

While Todd is deeply engrossed in the leading article ('Satan Let
Loose From Hell!', next to a picture of a grinning demon's head
billowing forth in the smoke from an oil well), the door opens. He
looks up - it's an older bearded man in a long trenchcoat, waving in a
friendly fashion. Todd recognizes him immediately.

"Hey, Sammy! How's it going?"

Sam Perkins was once a civil engineer who once owned a consulting firm
in Vancouver. Now comfortably retired, he patronises the store on a
regular basis, dropping by for Old Port cigars. Upon discovering that
they shared the same alma mater (Sam was a professor at the University
for a brief period), the two of them have frequently engaged in
friendly rambling conversations, on topics ranging from politics to
television. Todd has found Sam to be likable, intelligent and well
read.

"Todd, nice to see you again. What's all this? That doesn't look like
your usual reading material," he says, winking.

Todd blushes. "Well, you know, it helps pass the time around
here. Don't get me wrong, I don't really believe any of this stuff
anyways."

"That's good, you're much smarter than that. Besides, I would hate to
be the one who meets El Diablo in the middle of a street!"

They both laugh.

"The usual for you today?"

"Yes, a pack of Old Ports please. Actually, throw in a Crispy
Crunch. And a book of matches as well."

While Todd rings up the purchases, Sam picks up the tabloid from the
counter and flips through it idly.

"Todd, you know this stuff will rot your brain. Look at this
guy. What's his name - Ed Anger?  Look at this column - 'People Who
Don't Watch TV Commercials Are Pinko Commies!'. This is designed
specifically to appeal to the lowest common denominator. You know
you're better than that."

Todd shrugs. "I know, I know. I try to pretend that I'm doing serious
anthropological research when I'm reading this, but really, there's
that lowest common denominator lurking deep inside me that just loves
this stuff. Weren't you the guy who said last week you watch the WWF
on a regular basis? You have it in you too then! That part of you
which enjoys wrestling on TV even though you know it's utterly
fake. That'll be five fifty please."

Sam chuckles at this while handing over a ten dollar bill. "At least
the WWF has never tried to misrepresent itself, whereas I don't see
the disclaimers on this stuff you're reading. I've always wondered
what anthropologists of the future will think when they unearth the
remains of 20th century civilisation and find tabloids like these
everywhere?  They'll certainly come to the wrong conclusion about us."

"What, that we're a society of alien-obsessed nutcases constantly
fretting over Biblical prophecy? Well, how wrong a conclusion is that?
Besides, we anthropologists know never to fully trust first-hand
accounts." Todd warms to the topic. "Just think about that for a
moment: only a few of the ancient Greek plays survived, and that's
probably because those were the most popular ones that everyone wanted
a copy of. And so we conclude they were a great society based on the
collected works of Sophocles. Well, future people will judge us just
as much by the novels of Judith Krantz and Tom Clancy. Who knows what
the Greeks were really like? Sophocles might have been the Stephen
King of their age. Compared to stuff like that, if anything tabloids
may end up presenting the more balanced view of our current society."

Sammy flips the page, stopping at a two-page spread featuring a
picture of an astronaut standing on the lunar surface. In the
background are the remains of a B52 StratoFortress bomber.  Beneath
the picture, the headline reads: 'WWII Bomber Found On Moon!'

"Well, Todd, I sort of see your point - but take this story for
example. The entire idea of an airplane on the moon is just
laughable. But more than that: the idea of landing on the moon,
period. We've never come close to that, not even back in the sixties,
did you know that? That's the sort of wrong conclusion I'd hate for
anthropologists to reach."

Todd is momentarily taken aback by this. It's as if Santa Claus had
just appeared in front of him and confessed to numerous counts of
burglary and grand larceny; Sam has never shown any evidence of being
a crackpot until now. He laughs uncertainly, assuming Sam is just
pulling his leg.

"Yeah, of course I knew that. I mean, Neil Armstrong and that phrase
of his when he jumped off the ladder. How does it go - 'one step for
man, giant leap for mankind'?  Only a Hollywood scriptwriter could
have penned that."

"Yes. Absolutely true," replies Sam, no hint of levity in his voice.

Todd continues to play along. He remembers flipping through a recent
Fox special on television about people who believe the moon landing was
a hoax, so he has some material to work with.

"And all those pictures they claimed they took on the Moon? Totally
faked. Those shadows didn't line up, and there were no stars, right?
That's what Area 51 is, that's where they built the lot where they
actually took those shots - all those photos are doctored."

Sam smiles. "So you don't believe either? That's good. I sometimes
start to lose hope in finding someone who isn't totally brainwashed by
what he learns in school."

Todd is starting to believe that Sam is quite serious about all
this. A chill slowly crawls up his spine and settles in the vicinity
of his neck - a former civil engineer, of all people, is serious about
denying the Moon landings? He tries to push it further, to see how far
Sam will take this.

"But c'mon Sam, I've known about the faked Moon landings
forever. What's your theory as to why NASA faked this? I'm not sure I
believe they did it just to show up the Russians. What's your take?"

Sam looks pensive for a few moments.

"I have several theories," he says mysteriously. "Actually, I should
say that we have several theories." He leans in conspiratorially and
adds, "That is, a group of my friends and myself discuss this subject
and others on a regular basis."

Sam looks thoughtfully at Todd for another spell. 

"I'll just say this, Todd. You should be glad you don't live in the
United States. Not that you should feel much better in Canada though."

Sam then reaches for his wallet again and takes out a crisp, cream
colored business card. He hands it over to Todd.

"Here, I'd like you to have this. There's an address and a phone
number on the back. Like I said, there's a group of us that meet there
every other Sunday at eight; we meet again this coming weekend. We
consider ourselves a a think tank, and we do some," he pauses briefly,
then continues, "advising on certain matters. Strictly for our own
amusement, you understand. Anyways, I think you'd might like to join
us. It's a good group. I know you're a smart guy, and I don't like to
see intelligence like yours wasted. Especially not reading trash like
this."

Todd takes the card and can't come up with anything besides, "Thanks."

"You take care now, Todd. I'll see you later."

Sam walks out the door. It will be several long minutes before Todd
realises he has forgotten to give him the four dollars fifty in
change. Until then, he remains mesmerized by the business card and the
symbol on the front - it is a stylized rendition of a large hammer in
a large circle.





Chapter Six

Having exhausted the possibilities of the tabloids as his disposal,
Todd is now quite bored. It is still the early afternoon, and business
is still slow.

He has tried cleaning to pass the time. He has taken out the mop and
bucket, and made a brief and desultory attempt at cleaning the
floor. Since the store is so small, this only takes all of ten
minutes, and all it has really done is made his mop dirtier - years of
grime are not to be so easily shifted. He has tried dusting off the
cans and shelves, and wiping the glass down on the various fridges -
this took care of half an hour.

There are no deliveries scheduled for today, so he doesn't even has
the prospect of half an hour's hard labour to look forward to. He's
already done all the inventory for the week, and has finished the
month's accounting (necessary for tax purposes). 

There is the back room full of pop bottles, but Todd doesn't have the
energy to tackle those today. Sorting bottle and can returns is an
especially hated chore. Even more so since Todd finds that the number
of bottles and cans returned far outweigh the number of beverages sold
- people in the neighbourhood just seem to find it more convenient to
return Safeway-purchased cans to the local grocery store. As for the
sorting itself, it's basically just mindless dividing of the
containers by type and company. (Todd wonders how much of his brain is
wasted towards knowing the fact that Crush and Dr. Pepper soft drinks
are owned by Pepsi, whereas C-Plus and A & W is owned by Coca-Cola.) 
The task is made most unpleasant by dealing with drinks that are half
finished (which leads to spillages of bright sticky fluid everywhere),
or worse yet, polluted with trash. Todd shudders at the thought of
having to deal with yet another Coke can half filled with soggy
cigarette butts. Definitely nothing he wants to deal with now.

It is at times like this that Todd starts making up entertainment for
himself. The problem is that every time he tries to do something more
worthwhile - such as reading all the novels he's never gotten around
to - he finds that the interruptions from the occasional customer
disrupt any concentration, making the activity more trouble than it's
worth. Instead, during the first few months that these lulls occurred,
Todd came up with a project which involved reading the fine print of
food items in order to prove to his satisfaction that in actuality,
there were only five megacorporations which controlled the production
of refined foodstuffs in North America. Having failed to prove that to
his satisfaction, he has taken to more physical forms of activity.
Had he worked in a large supermarket, he would have long ago taken up
the art of frozen turkey bowling. He has instead had to make do with a
scaled back version which involves empty 2 litre plastic pop bottles
(culled from the week's returns), and old potatoes dug out from the
back of the bin (he would use oranges, except he doesn't sell
oranges). He lines up the bottles against the bottom edge of the ice
cream freezer and prepares for several good rounds of ten pin.

Todd has just scored and recorded a brilliant split (which
unfortunately has also caused the potato to explode into damp chunks
upon contact with the freezer), when he is startled out of his wits by
a voice behind him.

"Excuse me? Hi there."

It seems the noise of the bottles being scattered about has drowned
out the sound of the door chimes. He looks behind him. An young man
and woman stand there, clad in boring business attire and holding
briefcases.

"Hi," says Todd.

"Didn't mean to spoil your fun," says the man. He and the woman smile.

Todd is inclined to be huffy after being caught goofing off in a
spectacular fashion - bits of potato slowly sliding off the freezer
wall behind him.

"Yeah, well, don't worry about it."

"Are you the new owner of this store?" asks the man. The woman
appears to be a silent partner.

Todd gets even huffier. "No, I'm not the new owner. I've been running
this place for the last year or so. What's all this about?"

The man is somewhat taken back at the mild hostility, but
continues. "Oh, well, we were here - what is it, Linda, last July?"
She nods. "That would explain it. Anyways, we won't be taking up much
of your time today."

Todd gets a familiar feeling. He gets salesmen quite often, and this
pair don't seem to be any different.

"We were wondering if you might be interested in our magazine,
'Watchtower'. This month's issue is especially exciting - it's about a
matter that concerns a lot of people: why is life so short?"

Fully prepared for a marketing spiel about the latest brand of chewing
gum, Todd is caught off guard by this question, and bursts out
laughing.

"You're Jehovah's Witnesses, aren't you?"

"Yes," replies the man. He and his partner nod, smiling. Todd is
somewhat annoyed by their fresh faces and smiling demeanour - he
suspects this pair haven't been doing this for very long.

"And you're trying to give me a magazine explaining why life is
short."

"Yes," is the reply, coming a little bit more hesitantly.

"Tell me this then," says Todd. He adopts a haughty attitude, with his
hands touching at their fingertips, held in front of his lips. "If
life's so short, do you think I'd be standing here trying to waste it
by bowling potatoes?"

Linda touches her partner on the arm, indicating that she'd like to
take over. Her partner nods, and Linda begins to speak in an earnest
tone.

"But that's just you and your job, isn't it? This isn't your true
life. What we're trying to tell you, if you'll let us interrupt your
day for just a bit, is how one may reach your everlasting, happy true
life living under an earthly Paradise.  Now, doesn't that sound
exciting?"

Todd emits a hollow laugh.

"Will there be grocery stores in this Paradise?"

The two of them exchange startled glances. Linda says, "I don't know."

"I bet there will be. Do you know that I'm here Mondays to Fridays,
from nine to six?", asks Todd.

They shake their head.

"When I crawl home I have barely enough energy go cook and eat a meal,
do some reading if I'm lucky, do some accounting if I'm not, and then
I have just about enough left to fall asleep on my couch. In other
words, I think my life is everlasting enough, thanks for your
consideration though, and no, I don't see a way out of it at the
moment, do you? In fact, I'm starting to suspect that unless one comes
into this life extremely fortunate, one will have to work just for
sustenance - and since I also figure pretty much all jobs are
pointless and boring, this also means two thirds of life is equally
pointless and boring. So my question for you is: why would anyone in
their right minds want to prolong it?"

Todd has obviously pondered this matter quite a bit.

"Well, uh, let's talk about something else then. For example, do you
feel spiritually fulfilled by.. potato bowling?", asks Linda, quite
sincerely.

Todd can't believe the ridiculous turn the conversation is taking. He
shrugs. What the hell, it'll help pass the time.

"You mean, does it give my life meaning? You mean, is this my life's
work, like painting, or writing novels or composing? Hell no," (the
others don't flinch at this), "but it certainly improves my aim." He
drops his voice and mutters quietly, "You see, I've made it my life's
work to get rid of the squirrels in this neighbourhood. Lousy gray
critters, can't stand their bushy tails and beady little eyes. And
since I don't want to use guns or other sorts of dangerous things - I
really don't believe in guns, you know - I decided I should use
vegetables. I've found that potatoes are the best. Hard hitting, fits
well in the hand. Leaves no mess behind - and they only suspect
poisoned food when they find dead squirrels on the street."

The other two exchange glances. 

"And after the squirrels comes the raccoons. I hear raccoon furs can
fetch forty bucks. Maybe with a few hundred of those, I'll start
thinking about a longer life."

Some unspoken communication passes between them, and Linda nods
vigorously.

"I see. Well, look how the time flies! I think we'll be along now, we
have the rest of the street to visit."

"Okay then."

The man hesitates for a moment before adding, "May we leave this
magazine behind?"

"Sure thing."

"Bye!"

"Seeya."

They leave hastily. Todd sighs, and begins to scoop up chunks of
potato from the floor.




Chapter Seven

It's 3 PM, and the after school rush has finally started.

Smythe Groceries is located several blocks from an elementary
school. Since the school has a strict policy about remaining on the
grounds during recess and lunch hours, school kids do not appear in
significant numbers until the afternoon, when they descend in small
chattering hordes, eager to purchase candies, ice cream, and pop.

Todd is aggressively indifferent to children - at best, he sees them
as a necessary evil for the perpetuation of humanity. (Conversations
with his girlfriend on this topic have convinced him that his opinion
is a minority one, one that is better left unspoken and undefended.)
Certainly, his opinion of them has not been helped by several of the
neighbourhood's more rambunctious teenage boys. A noisy lot flush with
adolescent energy and hormones, upon learning of the store's most
recent change of management, they have repeatedly tried to run
roughshod over the place until Todd has been forced to clamp down.
His method of doing this is to allow at most five kids into the store
at any time - he has discovered this to be fairly effective at
preventing the screening of petty theft, while still facilitating the
inbound flow of money and outbound flow of sugar-laced treats.

Todd has also tried to be firm but polite in minor policing matters -
this runs the gamut from refusing to be swayed by bribery (most of it
stemming from teenagers attempting to purchase cigarettes), to gently
extricating shoplifted goods from someone's sticky fingers. Most
incidents are harmless - even the repeat shoplifters who get caught
tend to shrug it off and treat it all as some sort of game. There are
exceptions however; determined criminals with attitude problems, kids
in training to be future gunrunners, drug dealers, and perhaps
mafiosos who delight in pushing the bounds of Todd's limits.

A few minutes into the rush, a tight knot of the harder element pushes
their way to the front of the small crowd clustered in front of the
door and barges into the shop. The boy clearly in charge is a hulking
monster, over five feet tall, with a hint of stubble on his chin; Todd
finds it hard to believe that this is only a thirteen year old
teenager. He is certain on this piece of information, only because of
a phone call placed to the principal of the local school after the
last incident involving these characters.

"A tall boy with long black hair, brown eyes, looks fifteen? And he
was beating up other kids for money outside your store, you say? Why,
that sounds just like our friend Paul Schroeder in the seventh
grade. He's quite the character, isn't he? Would you believe he's just
thirteen?" A genial chuckle here on the far end; Todd doesn't share
his sense of dry humor. "Well, there's not much we can do about
him. To be honest, we're doing all we can to ensure that he finishes
school this year, instead of having to hold him back for another."

Paul's smirking compadres are now roaming around the store, quickly
grabbing stuff off the shelves, just as quickly replacing them, and
doing their best to look suspicious and worthy of close
scrutiny. While this is going on, their leader pauses for a second to
register the presence of Todd, and tries a sally.

"Hey man. I like your shirt."

Barely suppressed snickers of laughter burst out from the other four,
as though this were the funniest thing ever uttered in the history of
mankind. Todd is wearing a wrinkled (but clean) checkered brown shirt,
one hardly worthy of compliment. He thus concludes he is being mocked
and chooses to ignore Paul. Paul looks momentarily crestfallen as his
attempt at geniality is rebuffed and proceeds to join his gang in
rifling through the store's contents.

One of Paul's cronies, an urchin in stylish clothes (baseball cap with
WCW logo, baggy t-shirt, shorts which reach down to his toes),
attempts to get some service out of Todd.

"Yo, how much is that butane up there?"

Todd is wary of this classic ploy. The butane bottles are on a shelf
high above the cigarette rack behind him, and to look at the price, he
would have to turn away for a second. On the other hand, he wouldn't
be surprised if this smirking youth actually was interested in butane
for arson purposes, and since Todd hasn't really had much problems
with these youths (other than going outside and barking at them to
leave after the phone-call provoking incident), he's not too worried
that he will be the victim of that arson.

Todd turns around and reaches up for the butane. As he does so, he can
hear the ice cream freezer being slid open and closed again
quickly. He turns back around and notices out of the corner of his
Paul standing by the fridge looking nonchalant. Pretending to ignore
this, he addresses the butane-interested party.

"Five ninety nine for the bottle. Did you want it?"

"Nah, just checkin'."

More snickering ensues. Todd replaces the bottle on the shelf. The
party of five decide they've had enough and begin to troop out the
door.

"Hold it," says Todd. 

A brief telling look of panic flashes across Paul's face momentarily
before he bursts out indignantly: "Yo, what's the hold up?"

Todd walks around the counter and confronts Paul, who stands there
with his arms crossed and glares back. His friends stand behind,
muttering angrily to themselves. Todd becomes less and less sure
about this (particularly since Paul isn't that much smaller than he
is), but presses forward anyways.

"You've taken something from the freezer. I want it back, now."

"I don't know what you're talking about, man. You're wacked. Guys,
let's go."

Todd bars Paul's way, and before anyone can react, impulsively slaps
Paul hard on the pocket of his baggy shorts. He can feel something
squishy and very cold give way before and Paul jumps back, yelping
angrily.

"Care to explain what this is, then?" asks Todd.

In an amazingly short interval, Paul has quickly gone through all the
emotional stages from self-righteous indignation to cold fury.

"You had no right to do that, you jerk! You've ruined my shorts!  Oh
man, you're going to pay for that shit!" At any other time, Todd would
be laughing at the site of Paul squirming around, trying to turn his
pocket inside out to get rid of the cold milk product seeping into his
underwear - but tensions are rather high right now, and Todd is trying
to take control of things. Fortunately, Paul's friends are standing
around in stupefied shock at the ongoing drama, and don't seem to be
in any danger of launching themselves at Todd, who now declares:

"Sorry Paul, as of now you and your buddies can considered yourselves
permanently banned from these premises. I want you all out, now."

"Make me, asshole!" is the sharp, petulant reply.

Todd shrugs, grabs Paul by the lapels of his puffy jacket, and begins
pushing him out the door. Paul struggles, but Todd maintains the upper
hand and implacably steers him out. It is by sheerest bad luck that
just as Paul is half shoved, half launched through the exit, he
manages to squirm in just the right way to catch his head on the right
side of the solid wooden doorframe. A solid blow is delivered, Paul
lands solidly on the pavement, screams loudly, and commences to bawl.

The other four boys rush out to their fallen comrade's side, where
along with the other children milling about outside, they proceed to
raise a ruckus.

"Cool!" says one short pimply faced girl, obviously delighted by
something exciting going on.

"You've killed him!" cries one of Paul's compatriots. Todd's
heartbeat races at this suggestion.

"No, you idiot, he's just hurt," replies another of his clique. "Cool,
look at the size of that bump," he says, pointing to an
egg-sized lump developing on Paul's forehead.

"Holy shit, you're in for it now," utters the third darkly, this last
comment directed at Todd, who is standing in the doorway, not quite
believing what has just occurred.

"Uh, I didn't mean to hit you on the head, but you should have just
left when I asked you to," Todd says lamely, and by way of apology he
adds, "sorry about that though". He wrings his hands in despair,
already imagining the headlines on The Province tomorrow: "Boy
Brutalized by Shopkeeper: Brain Damage Suspected!". Todd feels
obligated to defend his actions, and quickly adds, "You really
shouldn't have tried to shoplift, you know." A desperate bluster
enters his voice as he finishes: "Anyways - please don't let me catch
you coming back in here again."

"I don't want go in there any more. You're psycho. Psycho! Psycho!
Psycho!" bursts out another young onlooker, and soon the singsong
cries of "Psycho! Psycho!" ring through the air, fingers gleefully
pointed in Todd's direction. Mercifully, the shouting dies away as
Paul slowly gets to his feet, rubbing his head.

"I'm going to get you man," he mumbles, waving his fist unsteadily at
Todd. Unbelievably, he follows it up with that schoolyard cliche, "My
brother's going to kill you. Just you wait."

Loud cheers burst out from all the other kids, who rush forward, vying
to touch the hero of the day (and to get a closer glance at the lump,
which is now turning all sorts of interesting colours). Happy to be
the center of attention, Paul wanders off unsteadily, surrounded by
his adoring fans - while Todd stands framed in the doorway exit, a wan
expression on his now pale face, muttering to anyone who will listen
to him, "He was shoplifting! He got caught! I asked him to leave and
he wouldn't! He was shoplifting, why won't anyone believe me?"




Chapter Eight

(**FIXME** THESE PARAGRAPHS NEED TO BE REWRITTEN!)

Todd only has to endure another half hour of elementary school
children and their inevitable inquiries ("Did you really hit him on
the head? Wow! Are you going to do this to everyone? Have you been
jailed before? Are you a child molester? Wow!") before his girlfriend
Angela walks in, lifting his spirits immediately.

"Hi Todd! How's it going?"

"Well, I think I was offered membership in the Freemasons earlier
today. I managed to scare some Jehovah's Witnesses away when they came
by offering me everlasting life, God forbid that ever come about. And
then just now, I nearly brained a kid who I caught shoplifting, and he
threatened to sic his brother on me. The phone has been ringing
nonstop for the last fifteen minutes, and I can't help but think it's
somehow related. Other than that, things are going okay. I guess."

"Good for you!" she says brightly, and offers her cheek for Todd to
kiss, which he does.

Angela has the knack of making Todd feel dull, slow, and extremely
lucky to have her as a girlfriend. They met in an anthropology class
that Todd was TAing; she was in her last year of her bachelor's degree
at the university, majoring in honours chemistry and filling in her
last few humanities electives as best she could. Todd was immediately
struck by her outspoken attitude during tutorial sessions, and her
willingness to engage in fierce debates with her fellow students and
even the course TA over trivial points of human behaviour in ancient
societies, even when clearly she was in the wrong. One day, Todd
pulled her aside at the end of class to quietly point out the lack of
foundation for one of her speeches; she in turn promptly asked him out
for a coffee.

Their relationship since then hasn't been entirely free of rough
spots. For one thing, it is hard to imagine temperaments as varying as
those of Todd and Angela. Todd is savvy enough to realise his own
disposition tends towards complacency and emotional blandness, and is
at times confused by, and at other times admiring of her ability to be
sweet, sensitive, yet also passionate - and sometimes perplexingly,
all at once.  At the same time, he is wary of her equally fiery
temper, quick to flare at some insult that he is incapable of seeing
and manifesting in a quick tongue eager to heap abuse on the unwitting
offender (which, to be fair to the both of them, hasn't usually been
Todd). Unlike Todd's blue collar roots, Angela grew up in well to do
surroundings, and while Todd feels she has escaped turning out as the
stereotypical spoiled brat, he can sometimes see in her flashes of
anger the signs of a sheltered, insecure, naive woman, sometimes at
odd with the world. This in turn invokes in him protective feelings
that cause him to feel all warm and fuzzy.  Angela in turn has
expressed her appreciation of the emotional stability of Todd, and
sometimes can't shake the feeling that this really means that he is a
nice, yet ultimately boring guy - a sentiment expressed by a past
girlfriend (a high school sweetheart with whom he's still friends).

The different temperaments of the couple haven't been much of a
problem though; it's the disparate financial states of the two that
have led them to some uncomfortable discussions. Todd has a degree
that he considers unmarketable, and is currently stuck in a dead end
job; she is a graduate student, by all accounts excelling in her
studies in a field ripe with future job opportunities. Todd lives on
his own in an old rundown apartment; Angela lives in a mansion in West
Vancouver. Ugly practical issues such as these read their head soon
after they began dating, when Todd's position at the university became
redundant. As they explored their shared tastes in Japanese food, bad
movies, and cultural exhibits at the Vancouver Art Gallery, Todd
became increasingly uncomfortable with his jobless state. Despite her
protests, Todd is enough of a cave dwelling Neanderthal to believe
that a guy should be responsible for at least half, if not more, of
all expenses occurred while dating. Until Angela finally convinced him
to take a job at her parent's store, it proved increasingly awkward
for him to squirm while she paid for the night's entertainment.
During this period, Angela had also invited him on several occasions
to move in with her at her home, but he declined each time. To him,
this smacked too much of commitment (although Todd will admit that he
can easily envision spending the rest of his life with her).

Then there are the parents, who disapprove of their relationship. Todd
has never met Angela's parents, but they are an ever-present spectre
haunting their daily affairs. Her father is a shipping tycoon
specialising in ice wine imports to a growing appreciative Asian
market, and has always been fairly distant from his daughter, instead
lavishing all of his attention on his son (Angela's younger brother,
the wastrel of the family). Her mother, whom she does try to get along
with, is still sorely disappointed that Angela has not obeyed her
wishes by marrying a Taiwanese first cousin, one who happens to be a
successful orthopedic surgeon. In any event there is the unspoken
assumption that both parents are deeply unhappy that Angela has fallen
under the influence of a foreign devil gwailo. 

As for Todd's parents, the main problem is that they have actually met
Angela; his conservative, somewhat religious parents have been shocked
by prior gettogethers - the most recent of which is still a painful
memory. It was just two weeks ago that Todd brought Angela along to
the ancestral home in Surrey for Thanksgiving dinner. What was hoped
to be a fairly uneventful holiday dinner turned into a disaster. 

The food itself was problematic - Angela is a strict vegan (another
conviction Todd can't help but admire, even though he doesn't share
it). While Mrs. Castle had been warned about Angela's dietary
constraints on numerous occasions, she is constitutionally incapable
of cooking a Thanksgiving meal that doesn't involve turkey, mashed
potatoes laced in butter and cream, and stuffing flavoured with bacon
drippings. Angela had to make do with bread, steamed brussel sprouts
and boiled yams, which caused some awkwardness at the table. 

And then during the course of dinner, talk shifted from small chat to
the origins of Thanksgiving, and that's when the argument
started. Todd had passed on a story in the paper about the old
Woodward's shopping centre, and the ongoing debate about converting it
into low-cost housing, when his dad dropped the bombshell out of
nowhere:

"I'm never been sure why the Americans make such a big deal out of the
Indians and the Puritans for their Thanksgiving holiday. If you think
about it, it's a good thing Europeans landed on the continent and
rescued the Indians from the conditions they were in."

Todd choked on a mouthful of turkey and cranberry sauce. Growing up,
he's been inured to this sort of outburst from his father. Todd
doesn't feel that his father is a racist, just that his old man has
some opinions which are a relic of his times. In other words, Todd has
pretty much given up trying to change his dad's view of life. This
time though, he's much more concerned about Angela's reaction. He
glanced over at her. Angela's face was stoic as she pecked at her
yams; she was obviously going to try to ignore this one. Todd felt a
wave of gratitude towards her, and nudged her foot. She nudged it
back.

However, Mr. Castle blithely continued on. Todd tried to shut him up
by clearing his throat noisily, but his father had already drunk a
little too much of his homemade wine, and was not to be deterred.

"And despite that, look at them now. Have you ever been down to East
Hastings, Todd? It's just disgusting how they all live like that -
addicted to drugs, living in squalor and filth. Letting them live in
the Woodward's building, that would be a waste of my taxpayer dollars
for sure."

"Hey Mom, how's the swimming classes going?" asks Todd a little
desperately.

"Todd, dear, you shouldn't interrupt your poor father like
that. Haven't we taught you any manners?"

"Yeah Todd, listen to your mother, let me finish what I was saying,
'kay? Now where was I? Oh yeah, the Indians. Have you heard what
they're trying to do with the fishery this year? That's just
disgraceful."

Todd tried to communicate with Angela with his foot, but being the
limited medium it is, it isn't enough to restrain her this time, and
Todd resigns himself to the inevitable reaction. Angela flings down
her fork (half eaten brussel sprout and all), and demands angrily:

"Mr. Castle, are you trying to suggest that it's the fault of
indigenous people that they're reduced to living in poverty?"

Mr. Castle looked at her owlishly. "Well dear, whose fault do you
really think it is?"

"Please don't try to dear me. I can't believe I'm hearing these,
these," she struggles for the mote juste and fails, "ridiculous
thoughts - from someone related to Todd, of all things!"

Todd is doing his best to remain invisible in all of this.

(FIXME: this conversation needs to be better handled)

Dinner was a mostly silent affair after that. Angela seemed to be
embarrassed at losing control of herself, and Todd's father was just
plain angry. As they said their premature goodbyes, Mrs. Castle took
her son aside and gently suggested that they were happy to see their
son in a relationship, but perhaps Angela wasn't entirely welcome in
the future?

None of this is on Todd's mind at this moment - given the day he's
having, he's just happy that Angela is here.

"What's in the bag?"

"I was shopping for Ryan's birthday present. Here, look what I got
him!" She pulls out a box from the shopping bag - it's a plastic model
kit.

Todd peers at the picture of a giant, vaguely humanoid robotic
mechanoid creation. "Looks neat."

Ryan is Angela's younger brother. A surly teenager who is every bit
the spoiled, indolent child that his sister isn't, he is nonetheless
dearly beloved by his sibling. To date, Ryan has only shown interests
in extremely violent anime, loud music, and street racing his souped
up Honda Accord through the streets of Richmond at night. Needless to
say, Todd and Ryan view each other as creatures from another planet,
linked only by their relationships to Angela.

"I'll say you chipped in on this, that way you won't need to get him
anything," Angela says. "Unless you already got him a present?"

"No, I didn't," replies Todd. He feels petty and mean. "I wouldn't
really know what to get him."

"Oh, you can get him anything! I'm sure he'll like it!", she
says. Todd is equally sure Ryan won't like anything Todd buys.  She
places the box back in the bag and sits down on an upturned milk crate
across from Todd's stool. "So, tell me about your day."

Todd launches into a brief summary of the day's noteworthy events,
sparing no detail. Angela listens attentively, laughing at all the
right places. When he's done, she comes over behind him and begins to
massage his shoulders.

"It's no wonder you're always so tense," she says, "you take this job
far too seriously. You shouldn't worry about Paul's brother. Hey, I'm
sure he's only an ex convict escaped from that Kent maximum security
prison that they always seem to be having riots at."

"Angela, honey, have I ever told you how bad you are at trying to
reassure people?"

"I think you've mentioned it once. Or twice. Maybe more. You tend to
be repetitive, did you know that?"

Todd begins to relax under Angela's ministrations. "I just really,
really need to get away from this stupid place for a while. I swear
it's sapping my will to live."

Angela pauses her kneading for a moment. "You know, you could be
right. We could go away. I could stand to go on vacation myself."

Todd turns halfway around. "You're not serious?"

"Really! I found out my exams end early this year."

"This, coming from the girl who can't stop studying even during the
holidays?"

She pouts and slaps him playfully on the head. "That was last year,
and I had a full course load to prepare for in the spring! You know my
course load is lighter this year, I can well afford to pip off for the
entire month of December. As for you, I'll just ask my parents to hire
some other lackey. Sheesh, even a trained monkey can do this job." She
giggles.

The entrance of a customer interrupts them at this point, as if to
prove the point. A few words exchanged, a swap of cigarettes for cash,
and the conversation resumes.

"Yeah, I'm nothing better than a trained monkey alright," says Todd
ruefully.

"Oh, stop being a grouch. So now I think we've decided, where should
we go on our vacation?"

"Well, you and I were talking about Vegas. Last month, remember? When
they had that article about Cirque du Soleil?  But it's seems kind of
extravagant given my bank account. Not that I wanted to gamble, but
it'd be nice to watch a few shows while we're there."

"Vegas! Todd, you know I'd gladly cover you."

Todd raises an eyebrow at her. "Have you ever had to justify to your
parents where their money goes?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Yeah, I guess I am. Just checking."

"Vegas! Just think, Todd. 40 degrees outside, away from Vancouver
weather, you and me sitting next to a dazzlingly bright swimming pool
sipping fruity alcoholic drinks. Oh! Just think, white tigers, guys
painted in blue.."

Todd is beginning to be infected by her enthusiasm. ".. just as long
as I don't catch you throwing your panties at Tom Jones."

Angela smirks. "That'll be the day. My mom's the Tom Jones freak, not
me. Isn't he sixty or so? I swear that guy's undead."

As Angela says this, the door opens, and a white haired woman dressed
in a shawl walks in. She has a careworn, kindly face and hair done up
in a bun. Todd's mind freezes; he really doesn't need this now. It's
Edith Turnbull.

Edith is an elderly lady who looks like anyone's dear old
grandma. Every now and then she comes in mainly for butter, cream,
eggs and other baking supplies. In doing so, she has taken a shine to
Todd, simple because "you're just the same age as my dear grandson who
is now at school in the States!". In fact, Edith will every now and
then bring in a tray of her home baked chocolate cookies (heavy on the
butter). Todd would find this attention okay, except that Edith also
has annoying views on immigrants and everyone nonwhite which she feels
compelled to share with all and sundry.

"Hello Todd. How are you on this fine day?"

"Hi, Mrs. Turnbull. Fine, thanks."

"I brought you some cookies. Fresh!" says Edith, as she takes out a
plastic tub of cookies from her purse, and hands them over to Todd. As
she does so, she looks slightly surprised at the sight of Angela, who
still has her arms placed in a familiar fashion around Todd's
shoulders. "Well dear, is this your girlfriend?"

"Um. Yes, she is. This is Angela. Angela, meet Edith."

"Hi!" says Angela. Todd winces slightly at her chirpiness.

Edith ignores this greeting, and wags a finger at Todd. "Todd, you
haven't mentioned your girlfriend before."

"No, I haven't, ha ha," replies Todd. He's feeling rather anxious
about her and Angela being in the same room, and really wants to be
rid of Edith as soon as possible. "So, what'll it be today,
Mrs. Turnbull?"

Edith ignores this, and slowly scrutinizes Angela. Angela begins to
realise something is somewhat amiss, but still seems cheerful.

"So," begins Edith, bluntly. "Where are you from, dearie? Are you from
Korea?"

Angela looks appalled at this unpromising start to the
conversation. "No, I'm Taiwanese. Sorry to be rude, but I can't see
how that's any of your concern."

"Well, you all look alike anyways. You seem to speak remarkably good
English for someone who's from there. Were you born here?"

"No. I'm Taiwanese, you see, which usually means I was born in
Taiwan." Angela's sarcastic edge is also beginning to show.

"Ah ha! You're just here to study English then?"

Angela's eyes narrow. "I came here five years ago to study
chemistry. My parents and I are applying for immigration status. If
that's really any of your business, which I don't think it is."

Edith clucks and shakes her head, and turns her attention back to
Todd. "I'd watch out for these girls, Todd. She might move back to
Korea after school. They're all alike, you know - they come out to the
West to study, and then move back to their countries with all that
knowledge they pick up. They're not loyal to Canada."

Angela begins to sputter. Todd smoothly tries to intervene.

"Now just hold on a second, Mrs. Turnbull," begins Todd.

Angela won't let him finish. She bursts out:

"Care to elucidate who the hell do you mean by 'they', Mrs. Turnbull?"

Mrs. Turnbull stares at Angela for a moment.

"I mean all of you Asian types, of course."

"Asian TYPES? And just what does that mean, exactly?"

Edith frowns. "I mean all of you folks who came out of Asia and come
to this country to learn from Canadian schools and take away Canadian
jobs from real Canadian people. People like my dear grandson, who
wasn't even allowed into a local university even with his grades."

"Mrs. Turnbull, your grandson wasn't let into the school because,
frankly, you're a card carrying member of the Nazi party."

Edith is truly shocked by this. "Watch your tongue, young lady! I'm a
third generation Canadian and I have every right to argue against non
Canadians like who are ensnaring fine young men like Todd here. Even
if the bleeding heart left wing politicians of this province will let
you in there's still people like us who will stand up for what's
right."

"Todd, I can't believe you talk to this lady, let along even let her
in here."

"Angela, she's usually kind of nice," Todd interjects.

Angela glares at Todd, who recoils meekly.

"Nice? With that sort of disgusting attitude?"

"Well. Uh. She brings in cookies, sometimes. And she's never said
anything like this before. Uh, I guess because she hasn't seen you
around before."

"So what are you saying, Todd? You don't want me around here ever
again? Because of some chocolate chip cookies?"

"Angela, no, of course not.."

Edith senses weakness here, and pounces on the opportunity.

"Todd, what's this now?  Just last week you were saying that those
Korean students got what they deserved."

"What?", says both Todd and Angela.

Todd is stupified. He remembers discussing some recent news about
Korean exchange students with Edith, but has a different recollection
of this conversation. Meanwhile, Angela is glaring daggers at Todd.

"That's not what I said at all!", Todd tries to explain, "I was just
making the point that they should perhaps have been a little more
careful in coming to a different country, and that Vancouver isn't
necessarily safer than an American city!"

"And that's when you said they got what they deserved."

"No, I did not say anything close to that!" 

Angela shakes her head in defeat. "I can't believe I'm hearing
this. Tell you what, I'm going. You two can discuss this to your
heart's content."

Angela picks up her bag and walks out the door. Todd stares.

"Well!" huffs Edith, "what did I tell you?"

"Get out," Todd says quietly, "Please." He holds out the box of
cookies.




Chapter Nine

"Hey, why the glum face?"

"My girlfriend and I just had a fight. I'm not sure she'll wants to
talk to me again."

"Bummer dude. Hey, can I have some cigarettes til tomorrow? You know
I'm good for it."

"Why don't you fuck off and die?"

"Okay man, that's cool."




Chapter Ten

As he stares morosely at the wall of soup can labels in front of him,
Todd is startled by a very loud "woof!" emanating from a dog from
close by. He glances out through the window through the chip rack, and
sees three people, two men and a woman. From what he can see, one man
is standing around, the other is barely restraining a large dog, and
the woman appears to be gesticulating and shouting at the other two.

Todd is puzzled enough by this tableau to walk up to the door and peer
out. He quickly wishes he hadn't. One of the men is actually Paul, the
teenage felon. Save for a purple lump on his forehead, he seems none
the worse for the head banging incident, and seems quite cheerful at
the prospect of retributive justice about to be delivered to his
attacker.

Presumably the other man is Paul's brother. Todd is amused (or close
as he can get to being amused, given his heightened anxiety) to see
Angela's guess right on the mark. A hulking six footer sporting a
mullet, a grim expression, a patchwork of facial scars and
multicoloured tattoos on his arms, he looks exactly like a convict
possibly out on day parole, capable of bench pressing five hundred
without breaking a sweat. The dog on the other end of the leash is a
very large German shepherd, shaggily feral in appearance. It looks to
Todd's fevered imagination as though it was weaned on a diet of human
babies.

Judging by the age and the authority she seems to be trying to assert
over the other two, the woman looks to be the mother - completing the
happy family portrait. Todd would like to imagine a haggard expression
on her coarse features, but finds nothing there that would allow for
a modicum of sympathy.

Todd hasn't yet been noticed, so he surreptitiously slides the
deadbolt on the door and considers his options. From what he can hear
of the conversation outside, it appears to be an argument between the
brother, who wants his dog to be granted immediate laissez faire
rights over Todd's body, and the mother, who wants the opportunity to
talk to Todd first. This argument is affording him a few minutes of
breathing room to ponder his choices, and they aren't many. He
considers life under a state of siege, but since the front door is the
only way in and out of the place he has no idea how long the standoff
may last. Besides, he has a business to run. Another choice is quickly
discarded: the animal doesn't look like it's been fed in a while, and
outrunning it is out of the question for someone in Todd's physical
condition.

Todd opts for the only other way out. He sprints back behind the
counter, reaches for the phone, hesitates for a moment on whether to
dial 9-1-1, and instead settles on dialing the nonemergency line of
the police. A couple of rings later, a female voice responds.

"Hello, Vancouver Police Department. You are being recorded."

"Uh, hi. I'd like to make a report."

"Go ahead please."

A deep breath, and a torrent of words: "I'm in a grocery store, and
there's a man with a dog outside, a really maneating dog, and I think
they mean to attack me with that animal, because I caught his brother
shoplifting earlier today and, uh, accidentally banged his head, and
he threatened to send his brother after me and look, now here they
are. I've locked the door but I'm not sure what else to do."

For some reason, the picture of the woman on the other end twirling
her finger in the air comes unbidden into Todd's mind.

"Slow down, please. You said they - is there more than one person
outside right now?"

"Yes, there's Paul - that's the little ratbastard, er, kid that I
caught shoplifting - and his brother, boy does he look mean, and I
guess their mom is with them."

"Have they tried to enter the premises?"

"No, I've locked the door."

"Were they making any verbal threats or threatening gestures?"

"I think that dog is a threatening gesture enough!"

"You're saying that they haven't made any attempt to come in, nor have
they talked to you?"

"Well. Yes. No, wait. They're just standing outside at the
moment. They're having an argument. I think it's about whether the dog
gets to kill me or not."

"Well sir, we can't really do anything unless they've threatened you,
which doesn't sound like that's the case."

"You've got to be kidding me! There's a wild animal outside and this
guy has threatened to have his brother kill me and lo and behold, here
they are!"

"Please try to calm down. We might be able send a cruiser by in half
an hour. If the situation escalates, then please call 9-1-1."

Todd is nearing his limit. 

"Goddammit! I might be dogmeat by then!"

"Sir, I would advise you to not unlock the door at any time."

"But this is a place of business!"

"Again, we will have a cruiser by in half an hour. Please call this
number and reference case number 9561 if we can cancel this
service. Thank you sir, have a nice day."

The lady on the other end hangs up. Todd hangs up and bangs his head
on the counter, and it is just at that moment that the door handle
turns. Paul's brother can be seen behind with a puzzled expression as
he realises the door is locked. A pounding of fists on the door
ensues; the barking doubles in intensity.

Feeling like a man in a dream, Todd breathes in deeply, walks over to
the door, yells out "Hold on a second!", unlocks it, and quickly
dances back behind the counter, scrabbling at the latch on the gate to
ensure that it is securely closed.

Paul and his relatives burst in a moment later. Paul, clearly
relishing the moment, is looking quite smug. Cold fury etches the
features of his brother, a slobbering grin is evident on the dog,
while the lips of his mother are tightly pressed together in a thin
line.

"Hi there," says Todd, in his best friendly manner.

"You fucking little maggot," says the brother, setting the tone for
ensuing discourse. A steady "Woof! Woof!" punctuates this (and every)
comment made by him.

"Paul, is this the man who hit you on the head?" asks the mother.

"Yup!", Paul replies (far too gleefully, thinks Todd).

"Look, I can explain..", begins Todd.

"You're gonna die, motherfucker. My dog's gonna rip your throat out."
Echoing bark of agreement from the Alsatian.

(Todd is beginning to feel like he's having an out of body
experience. It's almost as if he's a silent observer watching from
three feet above. And if he were to look down, he'd see: himself with
knees quivering behind the counter; a smirking teenager, arms crossed,
standing by the door over to his right; the teenager's mother standing
directly across the counter from him; and a maniac trying to control a
rabid animal, over to his left.)

"Terry, shut the hell up!" yells the mother.

"Mom!"

"Go wait. Outside. Now. Take that mangy mutt with you."

The mutt in question growls at her. She glares back at it. The dog
recoils onto its haunches, then whimpers softly. Terry glances at his
mother, shrugs, and drags the cowed dog past Paul and out the door.

Silence, then a burst of noise as Todd, Paul, and the mother try to
talk at once, and then:

"Shut up, all of you!", hollers the mother. The other two hush
up. "Now look here. Not no one lays a finger on my boys, 'cept me, got
that?  Who in holy Jesus' name gave you the right to hit my boys?"

"Well.."

"I really oughta let Grendel rip your throat out, you know that?"

(Todd's detached experience continues. While watching himself standing
there trying to interject a single word, his out of body brain is
analyzing the noteworthiness of the dog's name. "How cool is that?" he
thinks to himself. "Trailer trash who named their dog after an
Anglo-Saxon monster straight out of myth.")

"But.."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to raise these two boys alone?"

("I wonder if they've even read Beowulf? Maybe they own Richard
Burton's recording of it. That would be kind of cool. I should burrow
it some time, I've always wanted a copy of it.")

"But.."

"I've done my best for them. Even after Terry ended up in jail I had
to raise Paul as best I can. It doesn't help when I find jerks like
you beating on him for no good reason."

Todd can't take it any longer, and just before his out of body
experience ends, he finds himself yelling at the top of his lungs:
"Ma'am!"

She finally falls silent then.

"Look. I'm sorry about all this, really I am. But he wouldn't leave
the store even when I asked nicely, so I pushed him out. Again, I'm
really sorry, I shouldn't have overstepped my bound, but I was kind of
angry after catching him shoplifting."

As he says this, Todd can't help but notice the expression on Paul's
face. It is a barometer of his own fate: Paul looks terrified, and in
that, Todd sees a glimpse of salvation. Paul obviously hasn't
mentioned this part to his mother.

"What! How dare you accuse my son of being a thief! Do you have any
proof of this? You don't have any cameras here in this dump, do you?"

Paul looks hopeful. (The needle dips towards the rain indicator.)

"No, ma'am."

"Well then, it's your word against my son's. And I'm more inclined to
believe my son, bless his heart."

Paul begins to beam. (Mercury falling fast: a hurricane is
approaching.) Todd is at a loss for words and drop his eyes away from
Paul's face, and down towards Paul's shorts. Bliss! The boy hasn't had
time to change out of them! Paul locks eyes with Todd, realises the
game is up, and a look of abject horror appears on his face. (Mercury
quickly rising. An overcast day, perhaps?)  Paul begins to sidle
towards the door.

"Ma'am, would you mind turning out the right pocket of your son's
shorts?"

"What?"

"He was trying to steal an ice cream sandwich when I caught him. I
think it got, uh, squished."

"What?"

Todd can see the terror in Paul's eyes. (A bright sunny day ahead,
with maybe a few birds singing in the clear blue skies.)

"The remains of it should be on the inside of his right pocket, if you
wouldn't mind checking for me."

"Paul?"

By this time, Paul has edged all the way to the door. Just as his
mother says his name, he hauls it open and begins to run hard,
surprising Terry and his dog. His mother swears vehemently and runs
out after him, stopping only to cuff Terry hard upside the head and
yelling "Get him!", before taking off herself down the street.




Chapter Eleven

It's a little past five, and nearing twilight - although on a day like
this, twilight is delineated not by the sight of the sun setting below
the horizon, but by the brightening of the harsh glare from the sodium
street lamps.

Todd has had enough by now, and is taking steps starting to close up
the shop for the day. He plans to be gone by five thirty. This is a
half hour earlier than advertised, but he realises he just doesn't
care any more.  He rings out the cash register, and glances at the
tape - $381.45.  A pretty terrible day, even by slower winter
standards. He guesses the day's profits will be around $75, which just
barely covers his salary; no need to even think about whether that
will cover the rent. But then that's not really his concern, that's
for Angela's parents to figure out - at least until they decide it's
his fault and sack him.

He rings out the lottery machine, listens to the dot printer whine for
a couple of minutes, tears off the receipt, and glances at the
total. Taking out the calculator, Todd goes through the day's
cancellations and validations, ensuring that the total matches the
amount printed at the bottom of the daily receipt. Finishing that, he
wraps the receipt around the bundle of tickets, secures it all with a
rubber band, and throws it in the plastic tote box.

It's twenty five past when Todd finishes up with the rest of the
chores - putting the muffins and cream in the fridge, measuring out
the coffee grounds for the rest of the day. He takes the cash from the
cash register, wraps it with yet another rubber band, and crouches
down behind the counter to place it within the money envelope. While
he's doing this, Todd hears the door chimes ring.

"We're closed," says Todd, without looking up.

"You're open now. Stand up," is the reply. "Very slowly, with your
hands in the air."

Todd does as he's told, and stands up - to look face to face with a
man, dressed in a tattered brown leather jacket and with his face
covered in a ski mask and pointing a very large gun at him with both
hands. It's Todd's worst fear made flesh. He's being robbed.

Being robbed is a brand new experience for Todd. For some reason, he
is irrationally angry about this. Some of this stems from an odd
experience he underwent three months ago, when a couple of guys
dressed in shabby suits insinuated that they'd like protection money,
otherwise they'd be powerless to prevent incidents like these from
happening. Todd chased them out, and is now beginning to berate
himself for not taking them seriously (although he highly doubts that
this robber is in anyways affiliated with those wiseguys).

The rest of it is just some sort of instinct refined in him after
millennia of evolution - something passed down to him from some
ancestor, faced with a clubbing delivered by a fellow primate over a
leftover piece of zebra carcass left on the serengeti. Todd is not by
nature a violent person, but he does have a limit, as was earlier
demonstrated by the afternoon's events involving Paul.

(FIXME: did Todd ever take useless karate lessons?)

Another episode from his college days. Todd was on his way from a
friend's house to the university late one evening, and had decided to
catch the Skytrain. It was while standing around Joyce Street Station
that he was approached by a couple of neighbourhood toughs. One of
them took offense to Todd's jacket's color (it was a bright shade of
red, a gift from his mother) - something to do with rival gang colours
- and took it upon himself to try to tear the hood off Todd's
jacket. Todd surprised himself by reacting quickly and violently,
delivering a swift kick to the boy's knee which left him lying on the
ground howling in agony, presumably crippled and lame.

Just like then, Todd's mouth is now dry, and his heart is pounding
furiously. It's not from fear, but from icy cold anger.

"Give me all your money. Now!"

Todd looks over to his right. There is a bread knife tucked behind the
candy on the counter. It provides a convenience service - Todd uses it
to slice open freezie pops for the kids after school. Since it has no
pointy end, it won't be very much good here, and Todd doubts it will
be much use against a very large gun which is now being pointed at
Todd's head.

Todd still hasn't answered. The robber grows impatient.

"Are you deaf?"

"The money's down below. I just emptied the register. See for
yourself," and Todd nods his head towards the still open drawer of
the cash register.

The robber looks over the counter and into the register.

"So where's the fucking cash?"

"Down below. All fifty dollars of it. Is this really worth it?"

"Why don't you shut the fuck up? Now get the cash. Slowly."

Todd bends his knees slowly.

"Hold it!"

Todd freezes in midbend.

"On second thought, I'll get it. Don't you move a muscle."

The robber walks around the counter.

"Where is it?"

Todd nods his head towards the envelope of cash.

"On the ground now. Face down. Put your hands behind your head."

Todd complies.

The robber comes behind the counter, finds the money, and begins
taking it out of the pouch and stuffing it into his jacket.

Then: something snaps in Todd - raw instinct takes over. From his
supine position, he does a quick scramble and gets his knees under his
body, in the process shoving the robber, who stumbles. The robber
points the gun down at Todd, attempting to get a bead. Todd grabs the
stretched out arm of the robber, uses it as a lever to get himself
standing, and begins \wrestling for the gun. In the process, it gets
pointed at the opposite wall - there is a loud ear-splitting bang as
the gun goes off. Both Todd and the robber are startled - but the
robber is the one holding the gun, and he lets go of it. Todd catches
it in midair, clumsily turns it around, and fires. The robber
collapses on the ground.




Chapter Twelve

Todd is impressively calm.

His first action is to pocket the smoking gun. He then walks over to
the door, step outside momentarily and scan the neighbourhood to see
if any passerby heard the shots being fired. He sees noone, and steps
back inside, locking the door.

He drags the body through the store. Fortunately, the bullet doesn't
seem to have penetrated through the body, and there's no exit
wound. What little blood seems to have splashed out from the front,
and as he drags the body through the store, there is no blood trail.

Todd pushes aside the bottles in the empties room with his foot,
clumsily shoves the body into the room. He grabs the mop and pail, and
quickly mops up the few traces of blood behind the counter. He
squishes the now somewhat bloodied water out of the 

Then he hears knocking on the door. He looks up, sees a cruiser parked
outside conspicuously, then notices the police officer waving, and
knows he's royally screwed.

Todd walks over the door, unlocks and opens it. Two burly RCMP
officers walk in.

"Hello officers, what can I do for you?" Todd's voice is steady. At
any other time he would be proud of this, but it is taking every ounce
of his self control to do so. He is painfully aware of the still warm
bulge in his pocket - and it isn't due to excitement at seeing two
members of Vancouver's finest right after his recent murder.

"Hello. Are you the person who called a couple of hours ago about a
customer who may have been making threatening gestures?"

Todd has completely forgotten about this. 

His partner consults a pad. "Apparently, one of them had a dog?"

"Oh right! That was me. I was mistaken about them. They never came in! 
I'm so sorry to waste your time, officers."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Just a misunderstanding on my part. They looked kind of scruffy
and had this big dog, and I just got scared a little quickly. I've
been jumpy all day. I shouldn't be so judgemental based on
appearances, should I? Some one might notice this and get angry. Or
something. It was a trivial thing, I really shouldn't have called you
guys. I'm sorry."

Todd notices himself blathering, and makes an effort to shut up. He
imagines the officers are looking at him quite oddly. It doesn't help
that he is now transfixed by the sight of a brown glop slowly coursing
forth from a tin of Puritan stew, high on the shelf of groceries
behind the officers. He suspects he knows where the bullet from the
first shot has ended up.

"Well, okay then," says the officer, doubtfully. "I guess we can close
out this report. If they ever do come back and trouble you, please
give us call." He hands over a card.

His partner speaks up. "Wait, Walter. There's something else."

Todd's heart begins to race again. "What's that?"

"We're currently looking for someone who's been robbing banks, and
we're just wondering if you might have seen him around here."

Todd begins to tremble slightly.

"Robbing banks? Wow! That's news for this quiet neighbourhood. Well,
that seems out of my realm of experience, officers. I mean why settle
for robbing a grocery store if you can get away with robbing a bank? 
Compared to that we're just chump change, right?  I mean I never keep
around more than fifty dollars."

The second officer looks puzzled at this. "Actually, this man we're
after hasn't been known to rob convenience stores. We're just
wondering if you've happened to have seen a person of his description
since all three of banks that have been robbed are close by. Here's
the sketch that we've been circulating."

The officer pulls out a badly drawn composite sketch of a frowning man
with close set eyes, stubble and a large ragged scar on his right
cheek. Todd squints at it for a moment.

"Take your time."

"Woah. That looks a bit like Ronnie."

Todd squints at it a bit more.

"Yes, that looks quite a bit like Ronnie. The eyes and the scar kind
of give it away. I didn't recognize him at first with the stubble
though."

The first officer looks interested. "How tall is this Ronnie?"

"Oh, I don't know. About my height? Actually, let me think. Maybe just
a little bit shorter."

The two officers exchange significant glances. "And how well do you
know this man?"

"He comes in every few days or so and buys ice cream. I've never
really talked to him, and I've never paid much attention to him since
he's never bothered me, except that he keeps paying for everything
with twenty dollar bills, which is really annoying because it uses up
a lot of the change I have. Oh. If he robs banks, I guess that sounds
significant, doesn't it?"

"When was the last time you saw him?" asks the second officer. His
partner is now busy scribbling notes on his pad.

Todd scratches his head. "I think I last saw him on Thursday? Um, he
came in for a couple of chocolate Drumsticks. So anyways, I guess
that's five days ago."

Todd then considers his next sentence for about all of a half
second. On the one hand, Ronnie hasn't really been much of a pain; but
on the other hand Todd wants these officers out of the store as soon
as possible. Brown stew is still slowly dripping off the shelf, and he
really doesn't want to explain how that round hole got where it
is. Todd callously abandons Ronnie to his fate, and says:

"Oh, and I think I know where Ronnie lives."

The first officer stops his writing. "Do tell."

"Well, every time he comes in, he's coming from the direction of those
buildings just down the street. I think he has a girlfriend who lives
there, or something, because when I'm outside sweeping I've sometimes
seen them shouting obscenities at each other. C'mon, I'll point out
the building."

Todd quickly ushers the two officers out of the store. In the eerie
yellow light it's hard for him to make out the right building, but
eventually he recognizes the drab exterior, and points out a squat
building. It looks much like all the other ones around it.

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm quite sure. The door for that building has this bashed in
look to it, that's how I can tell."

"Okay then. I think we'll go have a chat with him. Thanks, you've been
very helpful."

"You're welcome. Oh, could you sort of not let on to Ronnie that I
squealed on him? I'm not sure he'd appreciate it."

The officers smile. "No problem. Oh, one more thing."

Todd can't take any more of these roller coaster rides of emotion that
he's on. "What's that?"

"Do you have any Twinkies left?"

If only everything was this easy, thinks Todd. "Yes. Why don't you
wait here, I'll go grab some for you."

"No that's okay.."

"I insist!" says Todd, and he sprints back in, grabs a package of
indestructable yellow sponge cake (filled with yummy frosting), runs
back out, and thrusts them into the hand of the officer. "Don't worry
about it," as the policeman reaches for his wallet. "Really. I'm in a
rush to close so I can get out of here. It's been a long day."

"Thanks," says the officer, and the two of them walk down the street,
and into Ronnie's life.



Chapter Thirteen

Todd now still has the small matter of a body to dispose of. In all
such criminal endeavours, his mind automatically thinks of his friend
Duc. He reaches for the phone and begins to dial.

Duc Hien is one of Todd's few friends that he still talks to from high
school. They were both in many of the same classes, and discovered
that they shared much of the same slightly cynical outlook on life. To
Todd, Duc has always seemed a good natured, jovial sort of guy. Todd
does get annoyed by Duc's tendency to play the fool; the effect seems
to be put on purely to put people off guard when his intelligence
shows itself (which it tends to do so in subtle ways, with somewhat
sly overtones). In short, Duc seems to coast through life without much
effort, mainly by being extremely charismatic; Todd has been amazed at
things Duc has been able get away with saying in public.

Todd also suspects that Duc has been involved in shady activities all
his life. Todd has never been able to find any hard evidence; just
that if ever there was a get rich quick rich scheme, Duc was sure to
know all about it (including a complete analysis of difficulty and
possible pitfalls). Todd has never actually found any hard proof of
Duc's nefariousness, though, and isn't sure that he ever wants to find
out.

The two friends parted ways when they each went to different
universities. Duc went to Simon Fraser to major in biology, at the
insistence of his parents who wished for their son to become a
doctor. Duc had other plans though, and after graduation has spent the
last three years still living in the basement of his family home,
doing the odd job here and there, seemingly content with his life.

Todd dials Duc's home and gets his father. After a brief exchange of
civilities, a sleepy and irritated voice responds.

"H'lo."

"Duc! You gotta help me!"

"Wha? Huh? Who's this?"

"It's Todd."

"Ugh. What time is it?"

"It's close to six."

"Haven't I ever warned you not to call me before seven? On some days I
don't even get up until then."

"Duc, let's hold on the friendly reminiscing til later, okay? I'll get
to the point. I need a big favour." Todd breathes in slowly, then
exhales. "I think I've killed somebody."

Silence on the other end. "Ha ha. You're kidding me."

"Dammit Duc, I've never been more serious in my life."

"You think you've killed someone? How? Where?" A gasp on the other
end. "You didn't finally kill Jay, did you? I mean, I know you hated
the guy, but still.."

Todd interrupts him. "I'm at the store, okay? Some guy just tried to
hold me up with a gun. We struggled, I shot him. He's dead!"

"Okay. So, tell me where do I come in to this, again?"

"I've got a body in the bottle room that I need to dispose of, and
well, I need some help." Todd has difficulty keeping the hysteria out
of his voice at this point.

"Okay, relax, relax. I'll be there soon. Don't open the door for
anyone except me. Understand? Do you know what my car looks like?"

"Yeah, you still drive that purple K car, right?"

"It's burgundy, you shithead. I'll be right there. Oh, and you'd
better not be kidding me, otherwise you'll be the one wishing you were
dead."

Todd feels somewhat relieved after this. Having nothing else to do but
wait, he turns out the store lights, pushes his chair near the door,
and sits quietly staring out the window. It doesn't take long. Exactly
fifteen minutes later, an late model 'K' car pulls up to the curb, and
the somewhat chubby figure of Duc steps out. It's been a while since
Todd last saw him; it looks like Duc has been letting his hair grow
long in the mean time. He also looks tanned and relaxed, and as
always, he's dressed in shorts and an ugly hawaiian shirt.

Todd opens the door, and lets Duc in.

"Todd, my man. Nice way to touch base with a buddy after a long time
no see, eh? Phone him up and tell him you murdered somebody?"

"Okay, look, I'm really sorry Duc, but it happened, and I didn't know
where else to turn to, and I sorta thought this might be up your
alley."

"Woah there. Just what the fuck does that mean? Disposal of human
corpses is up my alley? What, do you think just because I'm a gook, I
run with my gang buddies? That we run amok through Richmond randomly
doing house invasions, that we do this sort of shit all the time?"

Todd hangs his head. Duc chuckles.

"Hey, don't sweat it dude, I'm just busting your balls. That's not
really too far off the mark, you know.  Anyways, if I were in your
shoes I guess I would be the right guy to call - I can't imagine that
ditz of your girlfriend being of much help here. So, where's the
body?"

Todd leads Duc through the store and throws open the door to the
bottle room - where the robber's body has been laid out in all its
cold glory.

Duc whistles slowly. "Shit. I guess you weren't kidding. So what the
hell happened?"

Todd goes over the robbery and its aftermath. While he does so, Duc
bends over the body, face only a few inches away from the corpse's
face. He perches there motionless for a few seconds; to Todd, it's
almost as though Duc is sniffing his lips. Todd is somewhat revolted
by this.

"Duc, what the hell are you playing at?"

"Todd, I don't think this guy is dead."

"What?"

"Yeah, he's definitely not dead. He's still barely breathing. Look,"
Duc removes his glasses and holds them up. "Fog. Did you ever check
his pulse?"

"No, I didn't. Oh my god, I'm such an idiot!"

"Yes, you are. I guess he'll need some medical attention."

"Fine! Let's get him to the hospital quickly."

"The high school."

"What? They're closed at this time of day! Who are you looking for
there, the school nurse?"

"Todd, calm down. Think: this guy doesn't look older than
seventeen. So we toss him at the high school.  Someone will find him
and they'll assume it was a drug thing gone wrong. And when he tries
to explain, either he'll have to say that he tried to rob you, in
which case it's mostly justifiable, or chances are he'll just lie and
say it was some sort of drive by thing, sorry I didn't see their
faces, no I have no idea who or why anyone would do this to me, can
you please take me to the hospital before I bleed my guts out? I know
I would."

"You're not going to leave him there to die!"

"Todd, get a fucking grip. You - yes you - just shot a guy. Do you
know how much trouble you're going to be in? Are you comfortable going
to a hospital and lying through your teeth, saying you found a shot
guy just lying in the middle of the street? No, chances are there's
going to be a lot of questions that will make you squirm. If it was
just me, fine, but I've seen you squirm, and frankly, you don't do it
all that well. Remember that time in French class when we both got
caught without our homework done? Remember who got sent out to stand
in the hallway?  That's right, that was you, not me. Oh, and before
you ask, I'm not taking this guy to the hospital by myself. This is
your mess, not mine."

Todd closes his mouth, catching himself about to ask Duc to do just
that.

"So, here's what we're going to do. First, we bandage him up a bit,
just enough so I don't get his blood all over my car. Then we drive
him to the high school. We drop him in the yard. Then you can call the
cops from a payphone and report a body. Then we leave as fast as we
can. Okay?"

Todd nods, numbly.

"Okay then. The one thing good about this mess is that there weren't
any witnesses. Todd, please tell me there weren't any witnesses?"

"No. Funny you mention it though, the police did show up soon after
though."

"They what? That isn't funny at all. Did you let them in? No, of
course you did, that would be suspicious of you not to."

"Actually they were here for a different reason. It's a long
story. I've had a pretty awful day. I sort of accidentally beat up a
kid earlier, and then his brother came by and threatened me with a
dog. Uh, forget it," Todd hastily adds as he catches the look on Duc's
face. "Can we just get going with this guy?"

Duc nods. "First things first: we need to get him out here and into
the trunk without being noticed. I don't suppose you have any very
large boxes?"

Todd shakes his head.

"We could always cut him up and stick him in milk crates."

Todd shakes his head violently.

"Fine then. We'll improvise. Go get some cloth, we'll need to bandage
him up."

Over the next fifteen minutes, the two of them conduct the morbid task
of cleaning and bandaging the wound as best they can. As gun shot
wounds go, it doesn't look too bad. When done, Duc and Todd stand
back, and admire their handiwork.

"It's not great, but it'll have to do," says Duc, "I guess my parents
were right, eh? I could have been a fairly good doctor. Well, we're
going to have to remove it when we get there though, we don't want
people to think he was shot, bandaged, and then left for dead, since
that would just raise more questions than needed. Now, grab his left
arm, I'll grab his right - we'll pretend he's a drunk buddy of ours if
anyone happens to come along, and throw him into the back seat."

Todd and Duc drape the inert man's arms over their necks, and begin to
drag him out the store and into the street. A bit of awkwardness at
the door as Todd locks up, and then the two manage to open the back
door of Duc's car and place him in. Fortunately, the street is
deserted, and noone in their homes seems to be curious enough to
question the ongoings. As a last step, Todd fastens the seatbelt on
the body. He feels odd doing so.

"Okay, let's go."

The twenty block drive to the high school is a silent one. Todd feels
like he should be worried about the off chance that a police car will
stop them, but Duc seems to be driving much more carefully than usual,
and is keeping to the side streets. Todd is also beyond emotion now.

(FIXME: random high school memories?)

The two of them end up at the school. It is dark and deserted. Duc
drives up, and stops the car next to the field. Todd gets out, opens
the door, unbuckles the body, and gently tips him out onto the grass.
He gently tears off the bloody bandages from the chest, and gets back
in the car.

The deed is done.



Chapter Fourteen

On the drive back, conversation is minimal. Duc has turned on the
radio, and they listen to the play by play of the Canucks game. (Duc
is a fan, Todd is not, but tonight he is more than happy to defer to
the driver.)

At a lull in the game, Todd breaks the silence.

"Where are we going?" asks Todd.

Duc waits for the announcer to finish ("He shoots! Blocker save!")
before replying: "Let's go hang at my place for a while. We'll feed
you. Last thing you want to do right now is cook dinner, and you need
something good to calm your nerves."

A half hour later, they pull up to Duc's house, close to the (FIXME:
how exactly do I describe the neighbourhood of Knight/16th? And the
house.. big typical ugly Asian style without being too obvious about
it) Duc's family lives in a giant house with a rock garden in front,
and stylised lions on the fence, with huge lobby complete with large
winding staircase and giant chandelier. As they enter, Todd is
surrounded by strange smells and the sounds of many voices.  Three
generations all share the same house: Duc has two siblings, a brother
and a sister, each of whom are married and have kids. As a result, the
place is crowded and noisy. To Todd, who grew up an only son, this
place is both warm and inviting, and somewhat alien.

"Whatever that is, it smells good."

Duc makes a wry face. "It's pho for dinner."

Todd's stomach growls with hunger. "I love that stuff."

"I'm not sure you'll like the way my mom makes it."

Todd finds dinner to be excellent, despite Duc's warnings. Over the
course of steaming bowls of beef noodle soup, Todd and Duc catch up on
the latest events, and finish up with Todd's description of his
day. (They skirt around the topic of the robbery, for obvious
reasons.)

Todd gets to the Angela and Edith episode, and concludes with, "So, I
think Angela's mad at me, and I'm not sure she's going to be talking
to me for the next while." He sighs.

"Just because she shot her mouth off at some old cow and you didn't
immediately join in to defend her? That's cold, guy. I'm glad I'm not
dating her because I would have dumped her ass long ago. Dude, is she
really worth moping about?"

"Yes," says Todd, unequivocally.

"Suit yourself. You know I didn't like her from day one, and I think
the feeling's mutual."

"That's because your idea of an ideal woman is one that is seen but
isn't heard?"

Duc winks at Todd. "Damn straight."

"No wonder you're single and still living in your parent's basement."

Duc shrugs. "Guilty as charged. Eventually, the perfect woman will
knock on the door, delivering a pizza. Until that day, I lurk in the
basement, watch hockey, and order pizzas."

"How do you even get through the day like this? I mean, how do you
earn a living? Besides sponging off your parents? Don't you have any
ambition?"

"Dude, I make enough money to get by and keep my parents off my back,
thank you very much. It's all from legit sources, before you get any
ideas," Duc scowls briefly at Todd, before continuing, "if you really
must know, mostly I help out my mom with her maid services every now
and then. Don't you dare laugh. Prosaic isn't it? And here you were,
thinking I'm a gunrunner for the Dragons or something all these
years."

Todd chuckles. "I just never figured out how your parents put up with
you being such a slacker."

"Well, I also make myself quite useful to my nieces and nephews. My
sister and brother and in-laws actually have respectable jobs, I quite
often take care of their kids during the day. It's not bad."

Todd is genuinely surprised. "You like kids? I didn't know you had it
in you."

"Hey, these are my kids. Or at least, they're my flesh and blood. So
if I get a chance to straighten them out from the get go, you'd better
believe I'll take it. And if they talk back I'll smack em."

Todd thinks about this. "I've found myself hating kids more and more
because I hated the specimens that walk into the store after
school. I've always wondered what I'd do if I ever had a kid that
turned out like Paul."

Duc slurps up another mouthful of noodle and soup. "Like I said, smack
them enough and they won't turn out that way."

Todd raises an eyebrow at Duc. "Lesson learned growing up, eh?"

"Hey, I turned out fine. Ask my mom if you want pointers."

Todd glances over at the fringe of white hair peeking above an arm
chair which marks Duc's mother, watching TV in the living room. A
wizened, cheerful person who has always had a soft spot for Todd (she
seems to believe he is a positive influence on her wayward son), it's
hard for him to imagine her havingt o straighten out her two burly
sons.

Tidd pushes away his bowl as his finishes. "Thanks, I really needed
that."

"You're welcome. So, not to rush you, but you ready to go? I'll give
you a ride home."

"I guess."

The two of them head back out to Duc's car, and soon they are driving
away east into Burnaby, listening to old Rolling Stones tunes in the
car with the windows rolled down, oblivious to their cares, their
jobs, and to the rest of the world.




Chapter Fifteen

Around nine o'clock, Duc pulls up in front of a decrepit two story
house in the unfashionable end of West Burnaby.

"Here we are. Man, I can't believe you keep ragging on me for living
in a basement when your digs are far worse than mine."

"Thanks for the ride. And thanks for everything else," says
Todd. "Now, scram." He grips Duc's arm tightly.

"No problem, man. Try not to kill any more people any time soon, okay?
Like Jay. I know you hated the guy, but don't get any wild ideas."

Todd nods. Duc drives off. Todd fishes out his keys, walks down five
steps, and enters his basement abode. 

Todd's residence consists of two rooms and a bathroom in the basement
of an old relic from the fifties, with a bare attempt at a kitchen
added to one corner. Although a fresh coat of latex paint was added
and a new carpet was installed when Todd moved in, the place still has
an old, lived in feel to it. It doesn't help that the place becomes
unbearably cold and damp in the winter, and with no sunlight ever
entering, very little prevents black mildew spots from growing on the
walls everywhere. Such is Todd's domain. He has done his best to make
it a residence fit to live in, but with the limited furniture and pile
of clothes in heaps everywhere, it still screams "bachelor pad" to
anyone who stops by - which usually isn't anyone, save for Angela, or
his cat, Sprite.

As Todd hangs up his jacket, he notices the blinking red LED of his
answering machine. He punches the button.

"Hi, Todd. It's Angela, and it's Monday, around seven PM, and I guess
you're not home yet. Umm. Don't worry about it, I'll send you an
e-mail. Bye."

Todd has an odd feeling about this. He hesitates, then dials Angela's
home. A gruff masculine voice answers.

"Ryan here."

"Hi Ryan. It's Todd. Could I speak to your sister please?"

"She's not home."

"Ryan, is that a she's not home, because she's not really home, or is
that a she's not home, because she's really home but she doesn't want
to talk to me right now?"

"What do you think?" Todd can imagine Ryan smirking at this.

"Okay, never mind. Talk to you later. Oh, by the way, happy birthday."

"Thanks. Bye."

Having no alternative, Todd turns on his Mac (a much appreciated gift
from his parents) and dials up for his e-mail. It doesn't take too
long to download the eleven messages, nine of which turn out to be
spam (five of which have to do with college diplomas; Todd snorts at
this), the tenth turns out to be something from an old professor of
his at the university, and the eleventh is the mail from Angela. He
starts to read.

  From: Angela H. Lee <ahlee@unixv.ubc.ca>
  To: Todd Castle <tcastle@helix.ca>
  Subject: sorry
  Date: 21 Oct 2002 18:14:28 -0800

  hi todd,

  this is pretty hard for me. especially in e-mail (i tried to call -
  where are you??) but here goes.

  i'm really really sorry i got so angry today. i hope you're not mad 
  at me. please hear me out.

  i never mentioned this today, but i had a chat with dear old dad
  yesterday. and to cut a long story short, he flat out threatened to
  cut me off unless i stopped seeing you, and said some horrible
  things about you as well. then i got angry and said some equally
  horrible things to him and then hung up.

  so i was feeling pretty sensitive about our relationship today, and
  seeing that horrid edith woman say those things out loud didn't
  really help.

  but. and i know you hate it when i say 'but!', but you're not there
  to make that face at me, so i'll type it all i want. but!

  the entire thing about race is starting to wear down on me.  todd,
  you've never made any deal about it - and i love you for it - but i
  keep trying to prove to everyone else that i'm going out with you
  not because you're not chinese. and it's not because i'm trying to
  avoid the arranged marriage thing (after all it's not like we're
  completely backwards over in taiwan, i do have a choice in the
  matter)
 
  however I can't shake the nagging doubt: am I just trying to prove
  it, or is it really true?

  more and more i can't help the feeling it's the latter.

... finish me. FATALITY. blah blah blah.
 
    stupid cliches. blah.
    "I know you don't mean it."
    "But I want you to be angrier."
    "This isn't working out"
    "I love you"
    "I want you to stop feeling self pity"
    "Jolt you out of your shell"  
    "Cooling off period"
  - sobs. broken. etc. goes out for a drive.

Chapter Sixteen

  - stops in a random park (QE may work well) and sits for a
    while
  - talks to some random homeless guy
  - some really deep conversation about life that I have no clue about
    right now (esp. since I want to avoid the stereotypical 
    wise beyond his condition homeless guy thing, but I don't have
    a smart way of doing it.)

Chapter Seventeen

  - drives cross cambie bridge to a seedy bar downtown
  - gets drunk, idly chats up a woman, gets into a fight with her
    boyfriend. Which he loses spectacularly 
  - pulls out the gun (which he kept from the earlier incident) and
    threatens people with it
  - runs out into the street

Chapter Eighteen

- Sleeps it off in his car
- Dawn
  - realisation
  - unshaved
  - drives to work
  - the store is cordoned off
  - yellow tape
  - people milling about
  - drives by with his head hidden
- seven eleven
  - stops there for coffee and whatever passes for breakfast there
  - sees himself on the news
  - recognized by the clerk
  - clerk covers him (yeah, a secret cabal of grocery people!)

Chapter Nineteen
  - drive through Stanley Park
  - carnage: car should knock over the totem pole :-)
  - bridge

Chapter Twenty
  - rehash of first chapter
  - what happens?  ..beats me.

crappy ending # 1. spoiler alert. (HA! like anyone has read this far!)
- Sophie shows up - Duc has spilled his guts (even though he dislikes
  her)
- Convinces him to climb down
- Denouement
- Police don't press charges against him for climbing the bridge
- they don't know about the dude who got shot
- why 
- Todd decides to close up shop due to fear of retribution
- Sophie. Uncertain embrace. Gives us the job. Happily ever after. The
  End. Blah blah blah.
- Viva Las Vegas