Let it Go [part II - fin]

Continued from part I.

She called back just over half an hour later, and said, "Sorry about that, but you won't believe it, I was sitting down in the garage in my Mercedes for half an hour waiting for Ramon to show up, and then I finally went over to my parking spot and decided to drive in anyway. I'm so pissed off at him, it was just so inconsiderate, him going off for a day and a half and now it's been four days and I haven't been able to park in my parking space that I pay good money for, and have every right to park in, and now every day I've been coming home after a twelve-hour day and not being able to get into my parking spot and it's just been so frustrating..."

"Hang on," I say. "Back up. You mean he still hasn't moved his car? What happened when you talked with him just now?"

"I could sue him, you know. He's partly responsible for my car getting scratched, because he was parked over the line and he forced me to drive my Mercedes into that post. I'm not saying I would do that, but I could, if I were that kind of person. And I know that he did it on purpose, and that Pamela probably told him not to move his car, just because she likes to play those kinds of mind games. She likes to show that she has power, when really she doesn't have any. Ramon was playing power games with me. I can guarantee you that Pamela told him to do that."

There was no use trying to explain to her that Ramon cannot be held responsible for damage to her car that happened while his car was parked, and hers was the only one moving.

"So this has been going on since Monday..."

"But it's OK now? He moved his car?"

"Well yeah, but what's not good is that he left town on Tuesday and didn't even bother to move his car before he left, and it took him until Thursday to move his frickin' car! He told me on Monday he would take care of it but he didn't, and then to top if off he goes out of town and ignores all my messages..."

"But wait, are you saying that he went down just now and moved it, before you were able to get down there?"

"Yeah, but I sat down there in my car for half an hour because I didn't know he'd moved it..."

"But that's good, isn't it?"

"No! Because I've had to park on the street every day because I couldn't get into my parking spot..." Nadine is crying now, and has to pause every so often to inhale. "The temp in the office said she couldn't help me. What the fuck is with this management? I mean, I called every day, and Monica is off sick this week and I tried to explain to the temp what was going on and she was so useless!"

"But it's OK now? Your car is in its spot? Ramon moved his car?"

"Yes, but it shouldn't have taken him so long. He goes out of town for two days, I mean what the fuck? I left him three messages, and I said hey, you need to move your car, I can't get into my spot and I already dented my Mercedes against the post, so move your damned car. I have a twelve-hour day and then all week another 45 minutes is added to it because I have to try to find another place to park. And that bitch Pamela! I saw her in the garage and I said hey, there's someone in that parking spot you said I could use, where should I park? And she said, I'm not working right now, I can't help you."

"You mean Pamela was down in the garage just now?"

"No! That was on Tuesday. You know I know Richard, he's the owner of the building, and Pamela is after Monica's job and everyone knows it. They had a meeting with Richard and he said, Pamela I'm totally on to you, and if you don't shape up you're out of here, and you're not getting Monica's job so forget that. Whatever you do, do not trust her!"

I didn't ask how she could possibly know what was said in such a meeting, if it in fact did take place. I couldn't imagine Monica relaying that information to Nadine.

"She's young, she's stupid. And she's really dumb. She thinks she can better herself by putting other people down. You should have seen the look on her face when she saw me tonight in my Mercedes, down in the garage, she could have done something but no, she says she's not working she can't help me. And then she smirked. I can guarantee that Manny hasn't moved his car because Pamela said to him, fuck with her."

"But Nadine, he's moved his car now, right? And your car is in it's spot, and everything is OK? You can relax, and stop being stressed out. Even if you're right about Pamela, who cares? Don't let her get to you like that."

"I can't help it! You would have been pissed off too. I think I was actually cool and calm and collected compared to anyone else in the building."

Tomorrow is the release date of Postmodern Sass's Greatest Hits Volume V, in honour of her two-and-a-half year blogiversary.

Let it Go [part I]

The caller I.D. said "Restricted" so I knew it was Nadine. I had spinach and feta ravioli boiling on the stove, last week's episode of "What About Brian" playing on my laptop on the kitchen counter, and I'd just poured a beer, but I answered it anyway. We exchanged opening pleasantries, then she asked if I had a few minutes, and, silly me, I said yes, so she began to tell me about this week's drama.

"I'm so stressed out," she began, and I could hear the worry in her voice. "I get up at 6:00 in the morning and put in a twelve hour day, and I just don't need this kind of bullshit when I come home. I want to relax, and maybe have a drink, you know? But it's been four days now that I can't get into my parking space, and I can't deal with this anymore!"

"Hold on, Nadine, start at the beginning. What's the matter with your parking space?"

"Well it started on Monday when I came home from work, and there was this car parked next to me and it was over the line and I couldn't get my Mercedes into my spot. I have a concrete post on the other side and I couldn't squeeze in."

"So where did you park? What did you do?"

"Well, I had to go back out and park on the street, what else could I do?" The horror of having to park on the street was being clearly telegraphed in Nadine's voice. "What would you have done?"

I started to say that I would have written a polite note asking the owner to please allow me a little more space next time he or she parks, and left it on the windshield, but I only got as far as "Well, I..." before Nadine continued her saga.

"The bullshit politics that's going on in this place! Don't trust Pamela. She's a bitch and a gossip and she has a huge drinking problem. A couple of weeks ago I called the building cell phone when she was on call, and it was 1:00 in the morning and she didn't answer because she was passed out drunk." Nadine hiccups, then continues: "She was drunk at 3:00 in the morning and tried to get out of the parking garage and she stalled her car and then couldn't figure out how to start it again!"

Pamela is the assistant building manager. She's approximately twelve years old and as dumb as a sack of weeds, but I've found her to be responsive on the occasions when I've called the office about something. But then, I don't call the office in the middle of the night, and I wondered how Nadine had come by this information. I also wondered what it had to do with her car parking problem, but I've learned that where Nadine is concerned, the Perry Mason principle, as taught to me by my mother, applies: Wait until the end of the story. It will all make sense.

"She's such a bitch. I called her on Tuesday and told her what was going on and she didn't even care. I should demand a different parking space. So when I came home on Tuesday the damn fucking car was still there in exactly the same spot, and I didn't know what to do so I squeezed the Mercedes into the spot but I was right up against the post and there's about an inch of space between my passenger side and the other car and..."

I took a stab at an interjection, in hopes of clarification: "Is it a new car in that space, or is it the same one that's always parked there?"

"Oh, it's the same one that's always there. It's Ramon's car," she added, calmly, as though I should have known so all along. I know Ramon. He lives on the first floor. Last fall I'd heard from Monica that he had some furniture he wanted to get rid of, so I knocked on his door and we chatted and had a beer, and then he and I carried a chest of drawers up to my place. And then we had another beer. He seemed like a nice guy.

"Nadine, have you talked to Ramon about it?"

"Yeah, so, I called him on Tuesday night and he said no problem, he'd move his car, but on Wednesday when I was leaving for work at 6:00 in the morning the fucking car was still there in exactly the same place. He hadn't moved it an inch! And I had to get to work, what could I do, so I tried to back the Mercedes out and I scratched my car on the post and I was so upset and how can people be like that? I've left three messages on his phone saying hey, Ramon, how's Anna Lucia — we have the same maid, you know — hey, come on, Ramon, move your damn car."

Nadine paused, briefly, to take a sip of her vodka and cranberry. I could hear the ice tinkling in the glass.

"When I got to work I called the office and Pamela answered and she was all sarcastic and like, that's too bad but what can she do. I bet she told him not to move his car. She's such a bitch. Did you know Monica only hired her because their families were friends. She has three older sisters and she's always been the bad sheep of the family, and Monica gave her a chance when she would have been out on the street otherwise."

Nadine was nearly hysterical, now, but every time I tried to say something soothing, it had the effect of riling her even more. So I just let her talk.

"I am so tempted to go down there right now and park right beside his car and leave one inch in between just to piss him off. That'd teach him a lesson! I'm so upset! I'm going to call the office and demand that he be reprimanded. He should be told to put his car in its proper place!"

Her other phone rings, and she tells me to hang on a second. I hear, "Hello?" A pause, then, "Oh, hi, Ramon." Another pause, then to me: "I'll call you back."

To be continued tomorrow.

Calendar Girl [part II - fin]

Continued from Part I.

Sophia was terrifying me again.

"I wasn't changing the subject, honestly. It's just that there really isn't much to tell," I offered, in reply to her question. This was the truth. Mostly.

"Didn't you have a good time?" asked Sophia.

"Oh yes! At least I did. We spent almost an entire day together, going to different bars, coffee shops, and for pizza. We walked all over San Francisco."

"I see," said Sophia.

"It's just that nothing blogworthy happened," I told her. And this, too, was the truth. Mostly.

I know that I told you, Gentle Reader, that I had a date, but it was largely for Jack's benefit that I used the D-word. OK, and, well, I also said that to my salon girl when she was doing my eyebrows the day before, but the point is, in my own mind, I didn't know whether it was a date or not. In this day and age when children go on play dates, how does a grown-up define a date?

Just going out alone with a man does not a Date make. I know, for example, that when Blundering American visited me in San Jose it was not a date because he said so here. With Norm it was not a date because he's married. Same with Tim Bray, whom I've gone out with many times over the years, despite the fact that the first time was very nearly a career limiting move.

On the other hand, the times I've gone out with Jack to formally arranged events, such as Sara's wedding, or dancing on my birthday, or even to Jerry's party, I would have considered dates, but he, clearly, did not.

I'd like to propose, for your consideration, that what makes a date a date is that, though the get-together may have been arranged in all casualness, there is a possibility of, shall we say, a non-platonic encounter at the end of the evening.

The women among you will vouch for this, I'm sure, and may even wish to discuss the matching underwear question. The men among you, well, you can tell me whether Tod was right or not.

"Are you going to go out with him again?" Sophia was asking me now.

"Well, I'm not sure," I replied. "You see, I sort of ran out on him at the end of the night. We'd been walking from place to place, and were nowhere near the train station at 10:00, so I missed that train, and the last one is at midnight. So we wandered down to the Embarcadero and spent an hour at this wonderful little bar. It's right on the water, practically right underneath the Bay Bridge..."

"What do you mean you ran out on him?" Sophia asked.

"It kind of happened by accident. Suddenly it was 11:45, and the train station was a fifteen minute walk... and so as The Italian called for the check I said I'd run outside and try to find a cab, and that he should please forgive me if I was gone by the time he came out..."

"And you were?"

"Not exactly. It gets worse. I stood in the middle of the Embarcadero for what felt like ten minutes, and didn't see a cab, and then he came out and we started walking really fast, and he said he lived a block away and he would run and get his car, and I said OK but as a plan B I'll walk up to that corner and try to find a cab, so if I'm not there when you come back, you'll know it's because I found a cab and OH MY GOD I'M SO SORRY TO DO THIS TO YOU I'M SUCH A TERRIBLE PERSON!"

Did I mention he's Italian?

I suppose there are simpler ways to ensure you'll never be asked on a second date. Mist 1 carries a wedding dress in the trunk of her car for this exact reason.

The photo is of Sophia, Hilly, and Sizzle, at Tequilacon in Portland. Notice the looks of abject terror in their faces. There's one more Tequilacon story, but in the meantime, Postmodern Sass smokes out Canadians.

You Give Love A Bad Name [part I]

I was wearing matching underwear—Victoria's Secret, hot pink, if you must know—underneath my go-go dress last night when my karaoke buddies and I went to a Kickass Karaoke party at a boozecan on Queen Street. This is probably why I didn't end up going home with Ashton Kutcher—or, more likely taking him home, since he almost certainly has a roommate or, worse, lives with his parents. Because when a girl wears matching underwear for no particular reason, she's just jinxing herself.

Mo is on vacation and The Viking was unreachable, though we tried his cell phone—I hope he wasn't in High Park biting the ears off coyotes—and so it was Sparky and the girls: Lana and her friend Nina, me, and Darla, a recent addition to the cast of regulars. Punky Nerdster has not been seen nor heard from since before Christmas.

The boozecan was in a second floor studio, above a store. The door was suitably hidden in an alcove, though a sign reading KICKASS KARAOKE UPSTAIRS was none too discretely taped to it. Upstairs was a large, empty room with a wooden floor; a makeshift stage holding Carson's karaoke equipment at one end, and a folding table that served as the bar at the other. The walls were painted cinderblock. All that was missing was the retracted basketball hoops on either side.

The host, Stewart, a 20-something blond wearing a bright red belt, was onstage with the microphone. "We want to hear some dance songs tonight, so get your requests in!" He was lively and encouraging. "Come on everyone, come closer to the stage so you can dance!"

The room had filled with people quite suddenly, as if the doors had just opened and a lineup had been waiting to get in. This was not the case, however; we'd all been there for half an hour and our clique had, until a few moments ago, formed half the population of the studio.

Now, Lana, Nina, Darla, and I were leaning against the wall, well back from the stage, holding our plastic cups. Sparky was standing in front of us, regaling us with an amusing tale, and waiting to sing.

The windows had been draped with black fabric, yet the lights were far too bright. There was a familiar feeling to this place, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. And then Stewart opened the night by karaokeing Bon Jovi, and that was what sparked Sparky to nail it: "I feel like we're at a highschool dance."

The girls and I looked at each other, a cast of misfits, too tall, too skinny, or too heavy; none of us blond, and not a one named Stephanie or Ashley. Hanging out with a nerdy-cool guy who sings show tunes and dresses in drag.

"Yeah," added Darla, "But this time, we're the science teachers."

A couple moved foward onto the dance floor, that is, that part of the floor upon which no one was dancing, and hugged each other in slow dance style, even though Stewart is singing "Livin' On A Prayer."

"They've been going out two weeks," says Darla to me.

"I love you!" I say she's saying to him. "I've never felt this way about anyone before!"

"I know our love will last until eternity!"

"We'll be together forever!"

"Or at least until the end of the term!"

"Let's get out of here," says Sparky, and he begins to round up his harem.

Whoa, sugar, we're half way there.

I notice J.J. up on the stage. He's handing Carson a request slip. J.J. is a Kickass Karaoke semi-regular, though not one of my karaoke buddies. Sometimes, at The Rivoli, he sits near us, and he always has this slightly star-struck demeanor when he speaks to me. Or maybe he's just drunk.

"I found your blog," he told me once, a few weeks ago. "You're Postmodern Sass, aren't you? I was Googling Kickass Karaoke and I found it. I thought I recognized you."

We've got our coats on and are heading for the door, when J.J. sees us. I grab his arm and say, "Come with us. We're going to a place where there's karaoke for grownups."

"I can't," he says, and he looks pained, "I'm here with my buddies, I can't leave them."

So we head out in three separate cars to The Hole In The Wall on Dundas Street where we've been once before. Karaoke in The Junction is nothing like Kickass Karaoke on Queen Street, but it's fun in a different way, and that's where I meet Ashton.

To be continued tomorrow. In true Dickensian style, though not nearly so tragic, "You Give Love A Bad Name" will eventually be a seven part series; a week long story. There'll be a little bit of something for you, Gentle Reader, every day until Friday.

Hotel California

I was reading my karaoke buddy Operaman's blog over the weekend and I laughed when I read this story. Not only because it's a damned funny story, but because it reminded me of a similar embarassing tale of my own, and, as I always say, if you can't laugh at yourself you can't expect other people to laugh at you.

For those of you, Gentle Readers, who also read Tim Bray, and to whom I've hinted that one day I'd tell you a Tim story, well, sit back, make yourselves comfy, here it is.

Be forewarned, however, that it is a story embarassing only to me, not at all to Tim. And while he knows part of the story, because he was there, he never knew, until now, the embarassing part, but since he's no longer my boss I don't need to worry about it being a career-limiting move.

It was September 1995, and I was the marketing manager for that long-defunct Internet search engine called the Open Text Index. Tim was my boss, but I had only met him once or twice, and only briefly, because he lived then, as he still does, in Vancouver, and Open Text was then, as it still is, in Waterloo. We had just signed a Big Deal with Yahoo! and were hosting a joint press conference at an Internet café in Greenwich Village — in New York City.

Man, those were the days.

When the press conference was over, we all came outside and stood on the café's patio in the sun. It was a heartbreakingly gorgeous day. There were six of us from Open Text, including the president of the company, who was busy schmoozing with his Yahooligan counterpart; Linda and Steve, on technical duty — this was a live "cybercast" — and David Weinberger, at that time our hired-gun P.R. guy. It was early for dinnertime, but just right for beer drinking time, and so we discussed where to go.

I remember looking down the street and seeing, in the distance, the twin towers of the World Trade Center. We were staying at the Marriott in the plaza there, the Marriott that is no longer there.

"Why don't we walk back?" I suggested. "I'm sure there are lots of places along the way, and we're in no hurry, are we?"

We were all staying at the hotel that night, flying home the next day.

I was surprised at the grumbling replies of "too far" and "too tired" and "have work to do."

Only Tim said, "Let's go."

So we did.

I just love walking in Manhattan when the weather is fine, and I don't mind it even when it's not. I've been to New York many, many times and I've covered on foot the entire distance from the south ferry to Columbia University. I would have been happy to walk south to the World Trade Centre that day alone, but I was even happier to have some company.

Just between you and me, Gentle Reader, I was also a little bit nervous. This was my boss, remember. I didn't know him very well, but I knew him well enough to know that he was about eight million times smarter than me. And I was smart enough to know that he was still forming an opinion of me. The next few hours had the equal potential to be a friendship-bonding or career-ending experience.

We set off along a street whose name I can't recall, in a southerly direction. I've been to New York three or four times since September 11, 2001 and have missed the twin towers, and their guidepost-like ability to give you your bearings and act as a beacon. In Toronto we have the CN Tower, which serves the same propitious purpose.

It wasn't long before we chose our first oasis. Tim walked in first, headed straight to the bar, and took a seat.

"Are you a bar-sitting kind of guy?" I asked. I, too, prefer sitting at the bar rather than at a table or a booth.

"When I don't know the area, I always sit at the bar. Bartenders are a wealth of information," Tim replied.

"Bartender, what's on draft?" Tim directed his question to the man currently in charge. He's not one for small talk, I thought, and marked that as a point in his favour. I'm no good at small talk myself, neither am I above despising those who are.

The bartender recited his list.

"Is there a local beer?" asked Tim. Then, to me: "Always drink the beer that's brewed closest to where you're sitting."

I have never forgotten that piece of advice, and have imparted it frequently to friends, even to strangers. We had one beer, maybe two, then proceeded on our peregrination.

I don't remember where we ate dinner, or what we ate, and I remember little of the specifics of our conversation. I do remember that I was never bored, not even for a moment, and that I hoped the twin towers would be farther away than we had originally bargained for.

Night had fallen, but the evening was still fine and warm. We entered another establishment, and sat again at the bar. I don't remember which one of us said it first, and which expressed surpise that the other had, but the comment was this:

"Good single malt collection."

The bottles were, of course, clearly visible from the bar vantage. There was Glenlivet and Glenfiddich, Macallan and the other commonplace scotches, but what precipitated the comment was the Lagavulin, Dalwhinnie, and my favourite, Laphroaig.

Neat.

We sampled a couple of fine distilled malt beverages, and then the conversation became even more fascinating. Tim told me about working on the Oxford English Dictionary project, and about the interesting words he'd learned. (At such time as he sees fit to market his lustrous t-shirts, I will be the first customer.) He told me that he'd been married, and that he and his ex-wife were still friends, and how they had sent out divorce announcements the way people send out wedding announcements. He told me about growing up in Lebanon, and he likened the Internet to the telephone system he became accustomed to in that time and place — how it's far from perfect, it drops your connections now and then, it doesn't work all the time, but it's a great, great idea and it'll improve.

Have I mentioned I grew up in a hick town called Beamsville?

I was in awe.

And I was starting to feel drunk.

Now, I don't need you to tell me, Gentle Reader, that getting drunk is never a good idea, especially with co-workers and even more especially with your boss, but perhaps I don't need to tell you, either, that when you're drunk there's nothing you can say to yourself that will convince you of this truth.

I don't remember everything that happened after that. I very likely said some unintelligible, perhaps even downright stupid, things. On the bright side, I am a happy drunk — I love everybody, and at worst might need to be restrained from dancing on tables (or singing on balconies) — so it's doubtful I got into any serious trouble. Tim would have told me. I hope.

I remember a fountain. One of those big, round, constantly spraying ones, in a plaza. The kind that children will climb into on a hot day. I vaguely recall standing on the edge and daring Tim to dare me to jump in, a dare I would have taken, because I rarely can resist a dare, especially when I'm drunk.

But he didn't, and so I didn't. I think.

I'm sure we made it back to the Marriott, because of what was about to take place, but I have no recollection of the last few blocks. There may have been one last oasis; I'm not sure.

The next thing I remember is waking up in the middle of the night and having to go to the bathroom very, very badly. You know how, when you wake up in a strange place you take a moment to get your bearings? Well, I didn't take that moment. I didn't turn on the light. I may have thought I was at home, and so I tried to find the bathroom door by rote.

When I opened my eyes I was in the hallway, and the door to my room had closed behind me.

You can check out any time you like, but don't forget to go to the bathroom first.

I was very drunk. The scotch had had a few hours to seep into my brain, but good. I had no idea what time it was. There was no one in the hallway; no sound from anywhere.

I couldn't remember which door was mine. Not that knowing would have helped me enter it.

I wandered in the hallway with no plan. Then I knocked on a door. I have no idea what I hoped for, maybe that I'd find Linda — she might have been staying on the same floor. Someone yelled at me from inside a room to go away. It wasn't Linda. Tim may have been on the same floor somewhere, too, and to this day I thank god, even though I don't believe in him, that I didn't knock on Tim's door in my stuporous condition.

Before long I came to the elevator. I shook the cobwebs out of my rattled brain and reminded myself how one functions. I was crossing my legs and walking funny by this time.

I remember being just aware enough of my predicament to realize that I was about to enter a world of embarassment in the lobby of the Marriott, but I had to pee so bad I no longer cared. It was a very, very big lobby, but thankfully it was almost empty. I went to the desk.

The clerk took pity on my and led me to the bathroom behind the desk. I imagine there was one out in the lobby somewhere, but I wouldn't have been able to find it with simple directions. The clever man must have sensed this, and weighed allowing me into forbidden territory versus having to call someone to clean up the mess I would surely make if left unattended.

I have never been so relieved, metaphorically and literally, in my life.

Then the desk clerk, god bless him, made me another key, and called a bellman who escorted me back to my room. He actually opened the door for me, turned on the light, held the door to let me in, then gave me the key.

I hope I thanked him.

Throughout this adventure, Gentle Reader, I was wearing my favourite dusty pink silk Victoria's Secret nightshirt with absolutely nothing on underneath. It was then about 15 years old, had been washed thousands of times, and was, and still is, very, very flimsy.

Come to think of it, that may have been why the desk clerk and the bellman were so solicitous.

Then again, I'm sure they've seen stranger things. As I told Operaman, if you work at that Days Inn for a few months you'll be able to write a book.

* * *
Gentle Reader, there may be a dearth of stories for the next week or two, until I return from England. Until then, do visit some of my bloggerly friends — you'll find them over to your right.

Hopelessly Devoted To You

I continue to reel from the shocking reports out of Indonesia, Thailand, and Sri Lanka as the other side of the world begins the unimaginable task of recovering from the tsunami. Though the devastation caused by it is mindbogglingly horrific, as I grapple with assigning the news a locus on my schema it occurs to me that it is not as bad as the destruction of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.

Exponentially more people have died. The costs of rebuilding will be tens, hundreds, thousands of times greater. A dozen countries, not one, were victimized. Am I mad to say it's not as bad?

I don't think so.

In the days after September 11 there was nothing else on CNN. There was nothing else on any television network. All regular programming was pre-empted by news from New York. For days. I've been watching TV this week and the programming has been as regular as it ever is over the Christmas holidays, which is to say reruns of network shows at best, silly specials like Dynasty: The Making of a Guilty Pleasure at worst. My friend AC reported no irregularities in his New Year's Day football orgy.

Last night CTV's correspondent in Banda Aceh, speaking with the camera framing no greater panorama than his upper body, said, "The carnage and destruction is difficult to convey, and the images too gruesome to show television viewers." In 2001, the news media in Europe were criticized by Americans for showing video and still pictures of people jumping from the burning towers. It was months before American television resumed broadcast of Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwartzenegger, and Sylvester Stallone movies.

True Lies was on TV last night. It's clear my evaluation of the newsworthiness of the tragedy in Indonesia is not only validated by NBC, ABC, CBS, and Fox, but corroborated.

And so begins the posting of the pictures and the names of the missing on public walls and such lamp posts as remain standing.

Those of us watching television reports of this behaviour understand the futility of it, but will not admit it aloud, even to ourselves, because to say so would be uncharitable, verging on cruel. And, besides, what do we know, sitting in our comfortable, warm, living rooms, drinking vanilla bean hot chocolate, safe in the knowledge that though a blizzard may be raging outside our windows, there's nothing that can happen to us that can even begin to come near to possibly getting close to some sort of an empathic understanding of what those shattered souls in Banda Aceh are going through.

It's like in the story, An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, by Ambrose Bierce: Though it seems incredibly improbable that the rope would break at just that moment, allowing the prisoner to escape, we nonetheless suspend our disbelief because we're sympathetic to him, because we want him to make it home, and because, well, it is possible that that could happen. We get so wrapped up in the excitement of his flight that when finally the rope snaps taut and we realize we were experiencing vicariously a hope fantasy, the truth is all the more shocking and horrible.

When Sandy Olsen sings that she's hopelessly devoted to Danny Zuko, what she means is that she can't stop loving him, even though he has rejected her. We've all been there, we can relate, hence the decades-long popularity of Grease in all its forms.
The homeless survivors and orphaned loved ones on the circumference of the Indian Ocean are devoted to the hopeless notion that the missing will be found alive. And we can't even begin to relate.

I'll begin, anyway. This is my story of hopeless hope. I'll never forget the lesson it taught me.

When I was in university I lived for a year on the 13th floor of an apartment building on the corner of Girouard and Sherbrooke. It was a tiny bachelor apartment, one room with an alcove for the bedroom, and a door in the north-facing wall that opened to a very small balcony. To the right of the door was a narrow window, the boundary of which barely overlapped, by only a few inches, the railing of the balcony.

Because of the close quarters of our living arrangements and the necessity of cats to have a litter box, my cat Beaker's little boy's room, during the summer months, was the balcony. Beaker was a black cat with white paws and tummy, adopted from a neighbour's litter two years earlier, and named after the character in The Muppet Show because the baby-cat squeaking sounds that so endeared me to my pet reminded me of the non-verbal exclamations of Dr. Bunsen Honeydew's assistant.

Beaker liked to sit on the balcony and monitor the traffic on the Decarie Expressway thirteen floors below. My neighbour to the right, a corpulent gentleman given to shirtless tanning, was fond of the same activity. The two of them would be out there for hours, not exactly together, but nonetheless not far apart, as my neighbour's balcony also edged against the opposite boundary of the previously mentioned narrow window.

One fine day in June I was sitting on the sofa watching TV when suddenly Beaker glided through the window from the outside like a Flying Wallenda and alighted gracefully on the far end of the sofa. Such cat acrobatics, while mightily impressive, nearly stopped my heart — it's thirteen floors up without a net.

Ever try to stop a cat from doing something once it's learned how?

I tried not letting him out for days at a time, but the pathetic meowing and relentless scratching on the door eventually caused me to give in. But I'd only let him out when I was home, and then I'd leave the door wide open. Why would he try to jump back in through the window when there was a perfectly functional and far more convenient doorway to walk through, I reasoned.

Later that summer my boyfriend, Norman, dropped by with a carload of something or other that required my help in unloading. He buzzed from the lobby, and I went downstairs to meet him. Twenty minutes later we were back in my apartment. I was pouring us a drink when I noticed that Beaker hadn't come to greet us. When you come through the door carrying rustling packages and your cat doesn't snake around your ankles in hopes of a treat, you know something's wrong.

I called kitty, kitty. I looked out on the balcony. Under the sofa. Then, though I was feeling just the tiniest hint of panic way down deep in my stomach, but just the tiniest hint, I calmly and methodically opened every cupboard and container in the place. It didn't take long; this was a very small apartment.

No Beaker.

But he must be here somewhere, I reasoned again.

I went back out onto the balcony. My neighbour wasn't tanning, but his balcony door was open. His railing wasn't a foot from mine, and if Beaker could jump up onto my railing and pounce from there in through the window, surely he could pounce onto the next railing if he wanted to. That was it; he must be in my neighbour's apartment.

"He's next door," I exclaimed with relief to Norman, "Let's go get him."

"Did your neighbour say he's got him?"

"No, but he must be over there. Buddy's door's open; Beaker must have jumped over there and gone in."

He must have.

We knocked on the neighbour's door, but there was no answer.

"That's odd," I said, "His balcony door's open. I guess he must have gone out. Beaker must have gotten into the hallway somehow."

I called for Beaker, and made a circumference of the corridor. A couple of neighbours heard me and opened their doors to ask what was wrong. "Oh, my cat seems to have gotten out somehow. Have you seen him?"

They hadn't.

I came around full circle, back to my door, then went around again for good measure. On the second pass I fixed on the door to the stairwell.

"He must have gotten into the stairwell! Poor Beaker; he must be so frightened by this time!"

Norman said nothing, but followed me as I walked slowly down thirteen flights of stairs, calling for my cat.

We reached the lobby, and still no Beaker. Now I was truly puzzled. Where could he be? The lobby was small, with no place for a kitty to hide. Unless he had escaped out the door and into the street! Oh no! Beaker had never been outside! He might be lost!

I grabbed Norman and was pulling him toward Girouard Avenue when we literally ran into the building's caretaker. He was a big guy, so I didn't quite knock him down.

"Did you see a cat out there?" I asked hurriedly, in lieu of an apology.

"Oh..." he paused. "Which apartment you're in?"

"1314."

He made that sound my father makes sometimes, by sucking air through closed teeth, lips only slightly open. I knew what that sound meant.

"Big black cat?"

"With white paws!"

"He's on the balcony, 315. They call me jus' now."

I heard the words. I comprehended the English, even through the heavy French accent. I'd been in Montreal for three years, I was used to communicating this way. But I didn't understand what he was telling me. Norman did, though. He put his arm around me and turned me toward the elevator. I don't remember what happened after that.

Today, in memory of Beaker, and in the spirit of Hope, I went to the Web site of the Canadian Red Cross and made a donation to the tsunami relief fund. You can donate online with your credit card, and they'll email you a tax receipt in PDF format.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass gets three Christmas presents. More than twenty years after Beaker went parachuting without a parachute, Sass will lose another beloved cat.