therewascake.

Sheepstra

Over the last six weeks, I’ve been working hard on my writing. I enrolled in two condensed summer courses at the University of Toronto, one for academic writing and one for creative non-fiction writing. The latter required me to write five stories for a portfolio, worth seventy percent of my final grade. Over the next two weeks, I’ll be posting all five of these stories to therewascake!

The moment we were told our next assignment was to create a landscape out of clay, I imagined sculpting the mighty fortress of Helm’s Deep - the strong Deeping wall protecting all inside, the majestic Hornburg tower proudly touching the sky. My sculpture had a clumsy tower which slanted to the right and a fat wall that threatened to fall at any second. 


To my right, Drew leaned close to the clay in front of him, taking a wooden scalpel to the rugged Mordor landscape, carefully crafting both Barad-dûr and Mount Doom. 


“That looks awesome dude!” 


“Thanks, man.” 


He scooped out little windows on his clay structures, eyes focused on his work. 
 I turned back to my own work, dissatisfied with my leaning towers. The clay hardened in my hands. I stood, turned, and grabbed a spray bottle from the back counter. A couple of spritzes made it soft and pliable again. 


On my left, Branden worked on a bust of a Japanese robot, complete with Samurai-like antennae. 


“That’s looking good too, Sheepstra.”


“Don’t call me that…”


Branden paused, hands drowned in clay, and his arced back straightened. Steve Sheepstra, a guy in my class with a mop of ginger hair, was not his favourite person. Branden felt threatened by Steve, who was trying to become part of our group of friends.

“Okay Sheepstra.” 


“I said don’t call me that Jon!” he said, turning a light shade of red. 


Drew snickered beside me. 


“Jeeze man, it’s just a name! Calm down.” I said. 


“You know I hate Sheepstra! He’s such a fag! So seriously, stop calling me that.” 


“Alright, alright… Sheepstra.” I chuckled. 


Branden knuckles went white as he made fists with both hands. The red had darkened, contrasting his dirty blonde hair. 


“I SAID STOP CALLING ME THAT!” 


“Branden - out in the hall, right now.” Mrs. Henstock commanded. She furrowed her usually kind brow and pointed to the door. Branden walked out, his shoulders slumped, his arms at his sides, his hands still locked in fists. 


I turned back to my work silently. The clay, still moist under my fingers, just wouldn’t form the objects that I wanted it to. The brick-like shapes I engraved onto the wall looked more like a game of tic-tac-toe than the mighty Deeping wall that would never fall while men defended it. 


“This sucks… I don’t know how to make bricks. Drew, do
you?” 


“No.”


He carved out Mount Doom’s summit, consumed by his work. 


The school bell bing-bonged. I covered my fortress with a wet cloth to make sure the clay wouldn’t dry, gathered my art supplies, and strolled out of the art classroom. 


“Dude, I think Branden’s really pissed at you,” Jeremy Feenstra said as I passed him on my way to my locker. 


“Thanks man.” 


I reached my locker, grabbed the lock with one hand, and turned the dial with my thumb. Thirty-six three times, twelve twice… 


“JONNNNNNNNN!”


Branden ran as fast as he could, superman-like, his arm extended in front with a fist formed, ready to punch me through a wall. Time slowed as he ran towards me. 


When he was at an arms length, I stepped away and shoved him up against the row of lockers. 


“Dude, seriously?” I said. 


“I SAID STOP CALLING ME SHEEPSTRA!” He heaved, eyebrows furrowed, cheeks bright red. 


“Okay, okay. It’s just a name!”


Branden slid across the lockers, head down. My lock popped open and scraped against the metal loop as I pulled it off. I grabbed my lunch from the top shelf and closed the locker. 


“Are you still pissed?”


Branden muttered to himself. 


We walked silently down the maroon hall, to the peach school foyer and chose a good spot in one of the corners. The velcro of my lunchbag popped as I ripped it open. 


“Look who it is - hey Sheepstra!” I said, looking up. 


Steve lumbered over, sat beside us, and smiled. 


“Hey guys!”

Canadian Tire

Over the last six weeks, I’ve been working hard on my writing. I enrolled in two condensed summer courses at the University of Toronto, one for academic writing and one for creative non-fiction writing. The latter required me to write five stories for a portfolio, worth seventy percent of my final grade. Over the next two weeks, I’ll be posting all five of these stories to therewascake!

“Promo to cash four for carry out. Promo to cash four for carry out.”


“Copy that carry out”


I fasten the black walkie-talkie to my black pant pocket and walk from the back aisle in the warehouse, out the grey flapping doors, through the main store aisle, past the hardware and automotive sections, to cash four. 


An older man in a orange safety vest and bike helmet reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash, all twenties. He separates $200 and hands it to the cashier, who takes it and makes change. 


“Who needed a carry out?” 


“This customer right here.” 


The man looks like he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. His salt and pepper mustache matches the stubble growing on his face. An inflatable raft fills his cart and a heavy, black backpack fills his back. 


“Thank you sir, have a good day!” 


No response. 


I follow him outside, watching him push his own cart. The automatic doors woosh open as we as exit the stuffy store and a fresh breeze wafts in. The sun warms my air-conditioned skin. 


“So, where’s your vehicle, sir?” 


“I have bike over there.” The man points towards the line of light poles down the centre of the parking lot. 


“This isn’t going to fit on a bike, sir.” 


“I have trailer on bike! You think I’m stupid?”


The man furrows his brow as he looks back at me, his mouth contorted into a grimace. 

“No sir, I don’t. I didn’t know.” 


“Yeah, well, everyone else seem to think so. Like those bitches at customer service.”


We continue to walk to his black mountain bike, chained to a light post. A yellow and black child carrier fastens onto the back of the bike and an orange caution flag fastens onto the back of the child carrier. The flag waves in the gentle breeze. 


“Did something happen, sir?” 


“Yeah, something happen. Those fucking bitches at customer service, they tell me I can’t bring this backpack into store. I tell them: if you want to pay for portable tv if stolen, okay. They still say I have to leave backpack at customer service. Fucking bitches.” 


The man sniffs and rubs his mustache. 


“Sir, that’s store policy. They can’t do anything about that.”


“I’ve been customer for many years. I’ve spent so much money! They also laugh at me. I hear those fat bitches. Sitting behind their customer service, laughing at me. They have all of those cameras too. Act like I’m criminal.” 


“As I said sir, that’s just policy. I’m sorry they were rude. Now, how are we going to fit this in there?”


The man lowers his large, black backpack to the ground, kneels down, and unzips the child carrier. 


“Put in here.” He points into the empty child carrier. 


I grab the bottom of the box and wait till he stands to help. He stands back up, grabs the bottom of the box, and we lift it out of the shopping cart. We both stoop down to the child carrier, fit one side in, and the attempt to put the other one in. It’s too big. 


“What now, sir?” 


“I fix, don’t worry. What’s your name?”


“Jonathan, sir.”


“And Jonathan, what are you doing in school?”


“I’m in university, at university of Toronto at Mississauga. You know, the Erindale campus?”


“Yeah, yeah. What you studying?” He crossed his arms. 


“I’m a double major in Political Science and Management.”


My walkie talkie barks out an order to another employee. I reach for the volume knob and turn it down. 


“This is my father’s day present, you know? My children, they don’t visit me any more. I have to buy my own present.” 


“That’s sad, sir.”


“Yeah, but I okay. You know, I inventor. I invent world’s smallest guitar!” 


He holds his hands a foot apart in mid-air to show just how small. 


“That’s awesome, sir. Can you play it?”

“Can I play it? Of course I can! You know the storage on Queensway?” 


“Yes, sir.”


“I buy one of those, and I store instruments. Sometimes, I play disco. Very good music. Drums and guitar. People dance.” 


“At the storage place?”


“Yes, yes. One night, I play disco. Someone call the cops. They came and I showed them. They like disco.” 


His face glows, his eyes become little half moons, and his mouth turns up at the corners. 


“I’ve got to get back to work now, sir. Have a happy father’s day!” 


“Thank you.” 


I slowly turn and walk towards the beige and red building. The man stoops over his bike, lifts the inflatable raft, and struggles to get it into child carrier. The sun burns my skin, so I jog back inside. 


Pearson International Airport

Over the last six weeks, I’ve been working hard on my writing. I enrolled in two condensed summer courses at the University of Toronto, one for academic writing and one for creative non-fiction writing. The latter required me to write five stories for a portfolio, worth seventy percent of my final grade. Over the next two weeks, I’ll be posting all five of these stories to therewascake!

Colin’s Mustang GT roared through rows of cars in the Pearson International Airport parking garage. I closed my window to protect my ears from the V8 engine’s reverberations. The Mustang rumbled with power as it surged up the ramp to the next level, searching, vulture-like, for a parking spot. We found one on the fourth level, parked, and killed the beast with the turn of a key.


“Man, I’m so glad to have you with me. I totally would have got lost here.” I said. 


“No problem man. Can’t have your lady take a bus home, can we?” 


“No sir! But I’m seriously grateful!” 


The car’s doors echoed across the parking garage as we shut them. We followed the yellow arrows on the pavement leading to the airport entrance. The doors whooshed open, letting out the cacophony inside. 


A man in a dark business suit hustled past us, roller bags in tow. A contingent of flight attendants marched by, going the other way. Crowds of people waited in line to check their baggage. A few talked to the professionally smiling airport employees. 


“Woah, this place is huge!” 


“Yeah man, but Terminal One is even better. This place is old. What flight is she on?” 


We both looked up to the LCD panel directly in front of us as it flashed flight numbers and times. I reached into my left pocket and pulled out the white index card with Holly’s flight information. 


“She’s on WestJet. It’s flight 196 from Edmonton to Toronto.”


“I don’t see it… oh wait, this is departures!” 


“So, we have to look for arrivals then?” 


Colin adjusted his Texas Longhorns hat and looked around for a sign. I fidgeted with the index card and also looked for a sign. A big sign ahead shouted “ARRIVALS LOWER LEVEL” in green type on a grey background. 


“Oh there,” I said, pointing to the sign, “I guess it’s downstairs.” 


“The escalator is over there man - I guess we should see where her gate is before we do anything else.” 


The dimly lit lower level felt hot and stuffy. People lined the dingy hallway, some seated on the floor, others on the chairs mounted to the wall. We found another LCD panel close to the escalator. 


“So, what flight was she on again?” 


“Flight 196 from Edmonton.” I said, while I glanced at the index card in my hand. 


“Gate A… where’s that?”

A sign pointed down the long curved corridor. 


“That way, I guess.” 


We trudged along the corridor which seemed to go on endlessly. My t-shirt stuck to my back, made worse by the black backpack I carried. People filled the corridor all the way along. Some chatted with their friends and family, others typed on their laptops. 


That was how I met Holly four years ago. Holly and I first talked on the internet. We fell in love on the internet. We planned this meeting on the internet.


Arriving at the other end of the Terminal, we found Gate A. 


“Do you want to just sit and wait here?”


“You said Terminal One is better? Do you want to go see it?” 


“Yeah man. We can take the monorail - it’s really awesome!”


The steep escalator to the monorail climbed ever higher. The few florescent lights embedded into the roof dimly lit the thin moving staircase. 


“How was first year, man?” I said, while I re-hoisted my backpack.


“Okay dude… my marks were really disappointing though.”


“That’s to be expected, right? I mean, my marks dropped too. They’ll get back in second and third year.”


“I hope so.”


We passed through one set of automatic doors at the top of the escalator and stepped into a wide, empty space. Warm sunlight shone through the windows on both sides of the room. The door ahead had a yellow and white sign posted that read “Monorail temporarily out of service”. 


“Great. I guess we should just go back and wait, right?” 


Colin adjusted his hat and I cleared my throat as we traveled down the narrow escalator. 


“I’m really scared of H1N1 man, you know, swine flu.” Colin looked into my eyes, straight faced. 


“Seriously? Have there even been any cases in Canada?” 


“Yeah man. It’s serious stuff. The way the virus reproduces…” 


Where was she now? Is she off the plane? Will she text me when she can? 


Colin and I sat on the orange seats right next to the gate. I looked at Colin and nodded as he continued on about Swine Flu. I felt a vibration in my right pocket. Maybe she had landed! I dragged the cell of my pocket, opened it up, and pressed the “ok” button. 


“I’m really nervous…” it read. She had landed. 


“I’m really nervous too. Where are you right now?” I replied


Colin noticed me texting. 


“Is she off the plane yet?”


“I don’t know - she just said she was nervous.” 


My phone vibrated again. “I’m just getting my luggage. Is anyone with you?”


“Colin is.” I replied. 


“Do you want to wait in front of the door?” Colin asked. 


“Yeah.” 


We stood up and waited with our hands on the brushed aluminum barrier in front of the big automatic doors. Many people poured out of them now, all with WestJet tags on their luggage. 


A man in a business suit walked out with his roller bag. Behind him, a cute girl. My cute girl. She wasn’t wearing her glasses. She saw me and looked down and waited for a chance to get past the business man. 


“Hi.” I said. 


She set down her three blue bags, ran to me, and wrapped her arms around my neck. I wrapped my arms tightly around her abdomen. 


“I love you.” She whispered in my ear. 


“I love you so much.”

Uncle Michael

Over the last six weeks, I’ve been working hard on my writing. I enrolled in two condensed summer courses at the University of Toronto, one for academic writing and one for creative non-fiction writing. The latter required me to write five stories for a portfolio, worth seventy percent of my final grade. Over the next two weeks, I’ll be posting all five of these stories to therewascake!

I sat in the living room of Grandpa’s cottage on the brown couch with a white sailboat pattern, under the big picture window, across from the black potbelly stove. The yellowed curtain, which covered the big picture window, filtered out most light. My SEGA Nomad video game system beeped and booped in front of me. My hands sweat from the heat of the Nomad. 


Knock-knock!


Grandpa walked past me and opened the door. I flicked off the red switch on my SEGA Nomad. 


“Hello! Come on in!” 


“Hi Dad!” said Aunt Pat. 


“Hi Grandpa!” said Julia


“Hi John.” said Uncle Michael.


Uncle Michael wore his hair long, mid-way down his back. His glasses were slightly tinted, his eyes never fully visible. He wore a close cropped beard, greying at the edges. He had at least one ear ring always in. 


“What’ve you got there, Jonathan?” Uncle Michael asked, leaning over.

My gaze fixed on the tiny, blank screen. 


“A SEGA Nomad.” 


“Oh, I see.” Uncle Michael looked down at me through his tinted aviators. 


“Hi Jonathan!” said Julia as she bounded towards me. 


“Hi Julia.” 


“Do you wanna go play?” 


“Yeah, sure.” 


Uncle Michael always carried a camera to family gatherings, a black Canon with a flash bolted to the hot shoe. It hung around his neck, waiting to shoot. 


***


I sat on Uncle Peter’s couch, a cool glass of Vernors Ginger-ale in my left hand. The ice in the glass clanked as I brought it slowly to my lips. The other guests in the small living room chattered among themselves as we celebrated Uncle Peter’s 50th birthday. 


Ding-dong! 


I looked over my shoulder and saw Aunt Mercy rush to the door. Uncle Michael, Aunt Pat, and Julia walked in the door and took off their shoes. I got off the couch and stood by the stairs with Uncle Peter, waiting to greet them. 


“How’s everyone doing?” said Michael. 


“Gooood.” 


Michael set down a little black pouch containing his trusty Canon camera, walked over to where Uncle Peter and I stood. I wiped my clammy hands on my pants and shook his outstretched hand. 


“Wow Jonathan, you’ve sure grown. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” 


“Yeah, I guess so!” 


His hair was still long, his glasses still tinted, his ear still ringed. His close-cropped beard was now completely grey. 


“Can we see the new car, Catharine?” Aunt Pat said. 


“Sure. We can give you the new tires, too. Could Michael help Jonathan lift them?” Mom said.


“Michaaaeeel!” 


“What is it?” he said. 


“Can you help Jonathan put the snow tires into our car?” Aunt Pat said.


“Sure thing.” 


Mom, Aunt Pat, Uncle Michael, Julia, Uncle Peter, and I gathered in the narrow hallway, putting on shoes to gawk at our two day old Ford Focus SES 2-door coupe. I opened the big, red door and walked down the interlocking brick steps at the front of Uncle Peter’s house. 


“It’s beautiful, Catharine.” Aunt Pat said.


“Yeah, it’s a beauty!” Uncle Peter said. 


“We sure like it. I call it cute, Jonathan calls it sporty.” Mom said. 


Everyone chuckled. 


Mom popped the trunk to access the four snow tires. I grabbed the first one by the inside and lifted it out. 


“They aren’t that heavy, Mom” I said. 


“Okay honey, but be careful!”


Michael shifted things around in the trunk of his his silver Toyota Camry. 


“I think they’ll all fit in here.” He said as I approached. 


“They should. We used to get them all in our Camry.”

I lifted the tire into the trunk and we pushed it to the back, up against the seats. We then alternated taking tires: he took one, I took one, he took one. 


“I don’t think that last one’s going to fit.” I said. 


“Yeah, looks like you’re right. Might as well put it in the back seat then.” 


He opened the back door as I held the tire and removed a gift bag Julia had placed there moments ago. 


“Julia - take this.” He held the gift bag out to her. 


“And where am I supposed to put it, hmm?” She said. 


“You hold it. Like that. Can you do that?” He looked down at her through his tinted aviators. 


She sighed and held it out in front of her. I lifted the tire onto the floor of the car and Michael closed the door. 


“So, lets take a look at that car now.” 


“Sure!” I said. 


Michael and I walked over to our Ford Focus and he gave it a close inspection. He looked through the windows, at the chrome detailing, and around the shiny, black body. He paused near the back. 


“I like this spoiler. Good for keeping the back down when she takes off.” He said. 


“Yeah, for sure.” 


“This reminds me of a little Australian job I had. It was manual, you know, but it was great. I loved coming up behind people and down-shifting to first gear. The engine would make a huge noise and scare them! Then I’d shift back up and speed by. I loved that car.” He grinned and seemed to glow. 


“Haha, that sounds great.” I smiled. 


“Oh yeah, it was a fantastic car. I wish I still had it.”


“Why don’t you? Sold it?” 


“That was a long time ago, you know? I haven’t had it for years. I wish I did though, it’d be worth quite a bit. But it couldn’t last up here. The winters would have killed it.” 


“Yeah, the winters are really horrible on cars up here.” 


“Mmm. Did you see my bumper over there?” He pointed to his own car. 


A big crack ran all the way up the Camry’s front bumper, showing its Styrofoam guts. 


“Wow, what happened there?” I asked. 


“Julia took it to work and someone hit her in the parking lot. That’s the second time it’s happened! Last time we got it replaced, it cost… oh… $200. But the part only costs $20 or so, the rest is all labour.” 


“Oh wow!” 


“Yeah… I still wish I had that Australian job.” 


The red door ka-chunked open and Mom stepped out onto the small porch. 


“You guys want to come in? We’re going to sing Happy Birthday now!” said Mom. 


“Coming!” 


We smiled and walked together up the interlocking brick steps and into the house.