chapter four Succumbing to the Powers of the Curse
chapter four
Succumbing to the Powers of the Curse
After work I hop on the SkyTrain and settle into an hour-long commute to the end of the line in Langley. The press of bodies
mixed with the late-spring afternoon heat makes for a sweaty ride, but thankfully I have a spicy audiobook and a gorgeous
view of Mount Baker to distract me. From there it’s a quick walk to the basement suite I’m renting, the exorbitant price of
which reflects my proximity to public transportation and not at all its style or square footage. The squat little home is
cute, in a way. Aged white siding, maroon trim, and overgrown purple hydrangeas on either side of the paint-peeled front stairs
give it “grandma’s house” vibes.
I climb the steps and knock on the front door.
Moments later the door swings inward and out bursts a tiny dog, all lolling tongue and fluffy grey fur.
I squat to the manic little animal’s level and receive an onslaught of sloppy kisses, high-pitched whining, and excited piddling.
Thankfully, my upstairs neighbour-slash-landlady, Patricia, is prepared with a roll of paper towel.
She unceremoniously drops a folded wad onto the first puddle and steps on it with her slippered foot to absorb the mess.
“He missed you,” the older white woman says, her voice a bit unsteady due to the early stages of Parkinson’s.
“Oh yes, you’re a good boy! Did you miss me, Winston? Did you?” I ruffle the little Shih Tzu’s fur, my day already ten times
better now that we’re reunited.
Patricia drops more paper towel onto the next puddle. “He had a good day today. Took his pill like a champ. Bit of cheese
always helps—he likes the Havarti better than Swiss. He was wonderful on his walk. I got my steps in and he peed on everything.
At least we know his prostate is good. He behaved at the dog park until he saw that prissy poodle he doesn’t like, and I had
to get him out of there before he started a riot with the other dogs. Managed to steal a ball away from a collie, which I
thought was impressive, given his advanced age—”
Patricia continues, recounting every moment of their day together without a detail spared. By the time she comes to her conclusion
involving a shared meal and a nap on the couch while watching Days of Our Lives, the little dog has settled enough for me to pick him up.
“Thank you so much for watching him, Pat,” I say, holding him just far enough away from my face to evade his quick little
tongue. My face, I’m sure, smells like doggy gingivitis.
Pat waves a dismissive hand, the collection of brightly coloured jewellery around her neck and arms jingling as she does.
“Always a pleasure, isn’t that right, Sir Winston Churchill? Do we keep each other company? Do we?”
The dog wriggles in my grasp, trying to get back to Pat, but I hold him firm. “How was your physio appointment?”
Pat shrugs noncommittally. “I’m doing just fine. The swimming is helping. Easier on the old joints, you know.”
“Okay, well, if he becomes too much trouble for you, just let me know, and—”
Pat dismisses me with a wave of her hand and another jingle of jewellery. “Pish posh. This little guy’s the only thing that
makes getting out of bed worthwhile. Keeps me going.”
“He’s lucky to have you.”
“He’s lucky to have both of us,” Pat corrects.
I give her a smile. As much as I’d like to stand here talking to the only friend I’ve made since moving in, I have leftovers
to microwave and an old movie to rewatch. “Let me know if you’re running low on food or paper towels and I’ll restock you.”
Pat nods. “Will do. And don’t forget to get the lamb for him. Chicken gives him gas.” She turns her attention back to the
dog. “We have that in common.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. “Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow, Pat. Say goodbye, Winston.” Much to Pat’s
delight, I take his little paw and give her a wave with it. Then, I turn and walk back down the steps and around the side
of the house, balancing the dog on my hip while I unlatch the gate and step into the backyard. The cracked concrete walkway
hugs the house on my left, with a mixture of overgrown grass, weeds, and wildflowers crowding me to my right. Pat doesn’t
want to trim it, because bees, so we let it grow wild. I don’t mind.
The backyard is a postage stamp of a thing, the foliage a mix of crabgrass, clover, and dandelion with untrimmed bushes and
one maple tree. There’s enough room back here for an old fountain that hasn’t worked since the eighties, a wooden bench with
moss growing down the back of it, and various gifts from Winston I haven’t cleaned up yet.
I’m so glad Pat is a dog lover; it’s hard to find a rental within walking distance of the SkyTrain and a yard. Unfortunately, that’s pretty much the only thing this place has going for it.
I unlock the door and hip-check it open.
The eucalyptus air freshener I use to try to cover up the smell of old house is barely working, so I leave the door open to air it out and walk down the steps into my suite.
Winston nearly jumps out of my grasp when he spots his favourite toy, a raggedy Bugs Bunny stuffed animal that came with him from the shelter.
It’s all he has left from the family who dropped him off when they discovered he had kidney problems and would need medication for the rest of his life.
“Easy, Winston,” I say, lifting him to eye level. “You’re not ten anymore. Don’t break a hip.” I carefully set him on the
floor so he can claim his prize and favourite spot on the couch.
After toeing off my shoes, dropping the paper towels into the garbage, and flipping on all the lights, I walk to the fridge
and grab myself a black cherry club soda. After three months of living here, it’s finally starting to feel like home. The
kitchen cabinets look like they were stolen from a house before it was demolished and then sloppily painted a shade of faded
green. The appliances were old ten years ago, dingy, yellow, and loud. The space is too small for a table, but there’s a peninsula
with two barstools where I eat all my meals on the faux-butcherblock countertop. Opposite the kitchen is the living space—a
cozy nook with a couch that’s far too big for the room, a reasonable TV, and those tiny little windows you get in basement
suites that barely let in any light. I had to invest in good lightbulbs when I moved in to reduce the “dungeon” feel. Thankfully,
with the pops of colour from my cushions and art I’d found thrifting, the space has a cozy vibe. If only I could rid it of
the dank basement smell.
After lighting yet another eucalyptus candle, I cross into the bedroom and change into my oversize comfies, wash the makeup
(and Winston’s slobber) off my face, and pull on some fuzzy socks. My bedroom is similar to my living room—crowded and with
no concept of interior design, but homey and comfortable with a fluffy duvet and far more pillows than any one person should
have.
After retrieving a Tupperware with chicken and rice I’d eaten most of yesterday and heating it up in the microwave, I beeline for my spot on the couch next to Winston and flip on the TV, navigating to Netflix.
After scrolling past all the shows and films I added to my list long ago, I opt for an old Ben Stiller rom-com I’ve seen over a dozen times.
With how chaotic and unpredictable my life is, I need the comfort of the familiar.
As I munch on my dinner, not heeding Pat’s warning of giving chicken to Winston and immediately regretting it, I watch as
Ben fumbles his way through his romantic endeavours, clumsily falls in love, and finds someone who is willing to see past
all his flaws and love him back. My dream.
Inspiring as it is, that would mean going on more dates, and I’m over it. After the fiasco the curse put me through last night,
I’m done. Just me, my old dog, and cringey rom-coms for life.
I last exactly one month of loneliness before I cave and let Linda set me up on a date with the guy from her gym.
Pickleball Guy is far more into pickleball than she originally let on. I’d assumed he played to stay in shape and socialize,
like most people do, but this guy’s so invested he believes pickleball should be an Olympic sport—and, if it were, he’d be
on the team.
“. . . it’s all the best parts of tennis, badminton, and Ping-Pong all in one. Anyone can learn how to play it, which is how
it gets you. It sucks you in. But it’s not played on a worldwide stage, which is why it should be in the Olympics, because
then more people would take it seriously, like I do, and . . .”
I flag down the server and point at my empty drink, and they give me an understanding nod.
I stopped paying attention to this guy about fifteen minutes ago.
I don’t quite remember his name—started with an M, I’m pretty sure.
Matt? Mike? Mitch . . . ? It’s too late now to ask.
I’ll wait for Linda to question me about our date on
Monday. He seems kind, polite. Reasonably attractive, good teeth, hairline beginning to recede, decent build (thanks, pickleball).
He’s not my type at all, but he does have a pulse and a penis. Two points for him.
“. . . my agility has improved so much, my reflexes are killer, and I’ve met some amazing people. Just last week I partnered
with a guy who was in the armed forces, and he’s been all around the world, and he said pickleball’s kept him sharp as a tack
well into his seventies . . .”
The server returns and replaces my club soda with a fresh glass. “Ready to order?” she asks.
I don’t think I can make it through a whole meal with this guy. Besides, the more time we spend together, the more at risk
we are of succumbing to the powers of the curse. I give my head a shake, then offer her a polite smile. The server continues
to her next table, and my eyes, in desperate need of something more stimulating than the man in front of me, scan absentmindedly
to the other side of the room where I spot—
“Shit.” I twist in my chair so fast that the table rocks.