sweetheart Margo, and every day – every second, really – he could feel his wanting arms draped around her slender waist and the two hugging so intense they almost merged into one.
        That’s dedicated bonding, Axworthy always thought.
        Sadly, at least for Axworthy, his boss suddenly called out to him. Axworthy stopped and reluctantly turned around.
        His boss held up a thick polyethylene bag that appeared to contain rough and greyish white gravel.
        “Can you do a little favor for me?” He handed Axworthy the slightly heavy bag.
        With serious reluctance, Axworthy accepted it. “What do you want me to do with this?”
        “All Faith Cremation did what we asked and returned that”—he nodded toward the bag—“gentleman’s remains. The deceased requested in his will that we—that is, Amigone Funeral Homes—scatter his cremated remains ASAP. He doesn’t care where. Nor does he care where we get rid of the empty vinyl bag itself.”
        At first Axworthy was somewhat hesitant, but then he remembered that he had only worked at Amigone Funeral Homes for a short period. He shuffled toward the exit once more.
        Halfway through the doorway, he frowned and looked back to his boss. “Shouldn’t we request official permission to do this? Maybe even a permit is required?”
       “Honestly, Alvin, I’ve never been asked to do something like this before.” His boss winked at him. “Just make sure no one actually sees what you’re doing, okay?”
        Axworthy walked toward his car, wondering why his boss would ask him to freely scatter human remains without appropriate permission. If caught, this could cause significant problems. A quiet thought wormed its way into his mind. Perhaps, just perhaps it was in his best interest to start looking for a similar job at a different (and honest) funeral home.
        A sudden vision of Margo swept away his fears and soon he was lustfully seated behind the wheel of his car, seriously pumping the gas pedal.
        After a light dinner (and once the hugging and kissing and ultimate bonding had come to a temporary stop) and due to physical exhaustion, the two agreed to drive over to the Spanish Banks Beach Park for a rejuvenating walk.
        As they walked to the beach, it suddenly dawned on him that he’d forgotten to do what his boss asked him to do.
        And there was another, more important consideration for concern: If Margo ever caught sight of that bag containing the gentleman’s cremated remains, she would undoubtedly ask a number of serious questions. Worse (terribly worse!), he might find himself having to be dishonest (lying, to be truthful) to his new wife, which might (would) inevitably be the first step toward what would be a very ugly divorce.
        Serious ouch!
        So Axworthy came to an abrupt stop.
        “Oh, I forgot something. In the car.”
        He leaned over and kissed Margo’s cheek, then gently waved toward the warm sandy beach. “Why don’t you continue on and I’ll catch up with you super-fast?” He snapped his fingers. “Even faster than super-fast.”
        Margo’s inquisitive frown disappeared and, after watching her husband jog back to their car, she turned to continue walking toward the inlet.
        When Axworthy reached the car, he opened the backdoor and found the vinyl bag hidden under his spring jacket. As he closed the door, he glanced around and was relieved to see his wife still walking with her back to him.
        Studying the area around him, he was grateful to see only an elderly woman walking her sniffing young beagle. He calculated that he had plenty of time to complete his delicate mission.
        He sighted a small group of trees and calmly walked to the shadiest spot, visible to neither Marine Drive nor the beach, and unzipped the bag. He quickly deposited the gentleman’s ashes along the base of the trees.
        As he happily retreated, he passed by a municipal garbage container, where he deposited the empty vinyl bag before rushing to rejoin Margo.
        Then Axworthy made a mistake. A serious mistake.
        He stopped once again, and perhaps for reasons of growing guilt, he looked back to see the young beagle strongly dragging the older woman to that same group of trees. Worse—oh so worse!—the sniffing beagle disappeared among the tree branches, with only his wagging tail visible. His tail stopped moving for exactly four seconds, then wagged even stronger.
        At that point Martha, shouted to him: “Alvin? Alvin! Are you coming or what?”

 self-centered neighbors of yours—or this country will one day cease to exist.” His angular face filled with remanence. “I still mourn for the Texans, you know. A finer republic it would have been.”
        He closed the copy of The Economist and slid it beside his airplane seat. He then ground his teeth and wiggled his lower back.
        “I always feel somewhat uncomfortable when I endure flying on Canadian passenger planes. They always feel so cramped to me.” He wiggled his lower back a little more, still trying to get comfortable. “Even Air Canada’s advance seat selection isn’t so spacious. In fact, it always makes me feel squashed like a compressed soda can.”
        With sympathy Brownfield reached over and gently scratched Rodney’s belly. Most times—almost always, in fact—Rodney would never allow a fellow male to scratch his belly. But to him this Brownfield fellow was significantly different than the others. Deep in this rodent’s psyche, he had become his loyal and trusted brother.
        Attempting to be a little humorous, Brownfield suggested, “Why didn’t you just call your bigshot friend in D.C. and ask him to send Air Force One to pick you up and comfortably fly you — perhaps me as well, eh! — to Vancouver.”
        Rodney softly chattered his teeth, making a chh-chh sound. “Not the best idea.”
        “What do you mean?
        He glanced down at his abdomen. “Scratch a little lower if you could.”
        Brownfield complied. “Is that okay?”
        “Perfectly fine.”
        “So what did you mean with ‘not a good idea’?”
        “To quote my once dearest friend Dr. Seuss, ‘Being crazy isn’t enough’.” Once again Rodney chh-chh-ed his teeth. “It’s a shame we can’t lock that créature obnoxious in a vibranium metal box and forget he ever existed.” Looking thoughtfully, he added, “Alas, alternating history, even in the slightest way, may well give birth to the universal ‘Big Freeze’.” He wanted to develop his scientific thought, but decided now was not the time as he looked at his friend with genuine concern. “I’m more concerned about you and your current selbstmörderisch ambitions. Now I’m not trying to be hard on you, Matthew, and I’m not mocking you in any way, but if you continue with your ambitions, not even Mr. Clarence Odbody will be around to save you.”
        Brownfield looked directly into his eyes. “What about you?”
        “Obviously I’m with you right now.”
        “I think many right nows,” Brownfield calculated. “Not to embarrass my parents or anything, but I think you existed when I was first conceived.”
        “Your essence first entered my life—at least as I recall”—Rodney suddenly pointed his griffe forte to the right. “Over there, please.”
        “Like that?”
        “Perfect.” His teeth chh-chh-ed once more.
        Brownfield cleared his throat. “You were saying? About how I first entered your life?”
        “I was arbitrating a heated argument between Jamie (everyone close to him called him Jamie) and Frank concerning the double-helix structure of DNA.” Rodney’s black eyes suddenly popped open with utter excitement. “You know, I’ve always loved Cambridge University. The intellectual genius simply oozes from the walls. Only MIT, CIT, and Stanford could possibly compete stateside.” He added, “And U of T is sort of up there too.”
        “Yes, yes.” Brownfield knew it was a verbal stroke of his deflated ego, but mentally waved it off. “Back to the original question.”
        Rodney closed his eyes and slowly lifted his nose upwards. “You were seated in a plastic and metal highchair. Near your mother. She was preparing something on the stove. One of the elements was burning high on her GE 1950s stove. And then… that’s when it happened.”
        “What?” Brownfield asked anxiously.
        Rodney’s black eyes popped open. “Perhaps move to my right side and with a little more pressure.”
        Brownfield did as asked.
        “Perfect.” Rodney closed his eyes again. “Your older brother entered the scene, laughing and shouting to your mother that he found a dead salmon on the backdoor step. She was excited, nodding and rushing to the door. She said it was a gift from the severely injured neighborhood cat she’d nursed back to health.’”
        “While they were focused on the fish—that’s when I somehow managed to zigzag my highchair to the stove, right?”
        Rodney nodded. “That’s how I saw it. The burning element, its bright orange color, lured you closer until you slapped your hand on the element itself.” With measured cadences, he continued. “One second passed. Then another. And only after the third second did you finally emit a scream that could be heard in our galaxy and beyond.”
        Brownfield lifted his right hand from Rodney’s belly to examine his palm.
        “I’ve always wondered why there was no permanent scarring.”
        Brownfield glanced up to ask whether Rodney had somehow healed the burn, but now a Hassidic man was seated in his space, staring at Brownfield strangely. Brownfield shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

Her birth name was Zelda Shrimpton, and Zelda Shrimpton was the mother of Lisbeth Shrimpton-Álvarez, both of whom happened to be seated across from Dr. B. Beebe, Zelda’s medical doctor.
        “I’m quite happy everything is clipping along as it should be clipping along,” Dr. B. Beebe said while quickly clicking through Zelda’s digital medical file displayed on the screen. She paused her clicks and squinted at the screen. “I see Zelda has now gone through a needs assessment and meets the conditions for admission into long-term care.” Dr. B. Beebe glanced up at Lisbeth, who was flicking a minuscule bit of debris from her expensive cardigan sweater. “Do you know—?”
        “Christian Homes’ Grace Manor,” Lisbeth responded.
        “—when they will admit your mother?”
        “Tomorrow morning, which is somewhat surprising given the short period of time. We’re going to drive up there once we’re done here. To introduce her to her new living environment. It’s the wisest course of action, I think.”
        Dr. B. Beebe nodded as she looked back at her monitor. A second later, she was frowning. “Did you provide me with Zelda’s new address?”
        Lisbeth nodded towards the door. “I gave it to your secretary while we waited to see you. I’ve also cancelled mother’s Bell account. The facility does not allow residents—especially those with 24-hour nursing—to have their own telephone service. Or so I’ve been told.”
        Lisbeth reached over to lovingly pat her mother’s stiffly crossed arms. She straightened up as she turned back to the doctor.
        “Her personal lawyer and accountant are on top of it all, with key signatures gathered. And we sold her house on Quilchena Crescent.” Lisbeth’s voice suddenly expressed a kind of longing for something invisible. “I’ve been living with mother for the last month. I think I mentioned that already. Mateo—that’s my husband—loves my mother greatly, but he’s going to be mighty happy when I finally return home.”
        Dr. B. Beebe smiled sympathetically. “Does Zelda still possess her driver’s license? I don’t remember filling out that form….”
        “Yes. I think it was the same day you informed us of her Alzheimer’s.”
        Dr. B. Beebe shook her head and chuckled. “Maybe I’m the one with Alzheimer’s. Perhaps even dementia.”
        The doctor turned her attention to Zelda, who was staring out the window, no emotion evident on her face.
        “I think you are a very brave person, Zelda,” Dr. B. Beebe said. “You have an inner strength that many do not. I admire you for how you are dealing with your situation. But my involvement has been terminated, so I will be transferring your medical file to—?”
        “Christian Homes’ Grace Manor,” Lisbeth responded again.
        Dr. B. Beebe turned off the monitor displaying Zelda’s private medical file, toujours.

        As he waited for the attendant to bring around his rental car, a slightly younger woman, who looked like a duplicate version of American singer/comedian Carol Channing, pleaded with the desk attendant.
        “I simply cannot find my credit card,” the woman said, fluffing up the front of her (perhaps artificial) hair. “It just suddenly super-duper vamoosed from my entire life.”
        The attendant raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Did you just say super-duper vamoosed?”
        “That’s right, sugarplum. I’ve just been super-duper vamoosed once again.”
        She quickly nodded towards the glass entrance door. “There’s adequate public transportation out there, ma’am.”
        Brownfield immediately took to the woman’s side.
        “Excuse me,” he said to the super-duper vamoosed lady. “I don’t mind giving you a lift if that’s all you need.”
         She looked at Brownfield with surprise then happy relief.
        “Do you mind? Really?  I have no luggage and my house is just off of W. 33rd. Ave.”
         Surprise. Interest. Inquiry.
        “You did say W. 33rd. Ave.?” ....

        “I’ve just read over that email you sent to Ms. K and copied me through rodneytherat@yahoo.com.”
        Rodney was referring to:

Good morning Ms. K,

I received the LCBO ‘card’ yesterday. Thank you. I do not know themonetary value of this card, but then again I don't know the value of anythingthese days.
        Now please payattention ...
        When I was forty-two years old, Ihad a triple brain bleed that required three surgeries. While recovering fromthe first surgery, I found myself in the world of aphasia; the toughestchallenge to overcome was developing proper speech.
        So it really bothers me when I tellsomeone, such as the Fairview LCBO manager (whom I believed was the storemanager), that I have a speech difficulty and he deliberately hangs up on me.Such crude behavior is absolutely disgusting!
        Had this happened in aprivately owned store, that same manager would be demoted if not outrightfired.
        I should add that mostLCBO employees are excellent. I cannot say the same about that fellow or anyonewho would tolerate such ugly behavior.

Yours,

The guy who was made to feel like a slug

         “In Canada, no delinquent employee is ever fired. In fact, the only one ever demoted is the offender’s unfortunate boss.”
          Brownfield pulls his will and testament from the small bag and places it on top of the bed. “Sure. I agree that—with the exception of hockey and divorces—we are quite the submissive society.”
        “And your writing skills were totally lacking, Matthew.”
        “I was just really pissed off at being emotionally bruised again. It’s too much. Just too much, Rodney! Creeps like that should not get away with such vulgar behavior.” ….

Good afternoon Ms. K,

I honestly never thought I would email you again, but I recently experienced another bizarre incident in that same LCBO outlet and it really got on my nerves.

     The incident involved one of your female employees who didn't even say thanks when I gave her a poppy and a belligerent customer who curtly rejected the poppy I offered him, saying, “I don't want it.”

     I’m sure you’re a little surprised—if not embarrassed—by such strange responses. Does anyone in this freaky little town fully understand what a poppy symbolizes? Seriously, Ms. K, do they care or ….

....

Brownstein would experience the most freakish and unsettling nightmares he'd ever had. These disturbing images unfolded this way:
      .... His father is wearing a hockey face mask. Brownfield pleads for him to remove it. His dad does, and then he asks, ‘Who the hell are you anyway?’ ....  Brownfield’s older brother emerges, swinging Tisha’s dog chain, and mockingly shouts to young Brownfield, ‘Tish is dead! Tish is dead! Tish is dead!’ .... Nazi SS officer bangs on Brownfield’s apartment front door and demands, ‘Are you a Jew?’ To which Brownfield lies, ‘No. Don’t tell anyone now—seriously, just don’t tell anyone because you could get yourself in serious trouble—but I’m a close relative of Adolph Hitler. I swear that’s the truth.’ .... Brownfield is kneeling on one knee. ‘Will you marry me, Barb? Please, will you marry me? I promise I’ll always keep our dishes and cutlery perfectly clean.’.... Napoleon appears and demands his military generals to follow him without question. Above them, a growing army of Canadian seagulls prepare to descend in attack, bird shit being their clever choice of ammunition. .... Brownfield finds Pidzaweasel and his younger brother sitting in his undergraduate union’s office. Each have slipped their hands under the front of their pants and angrily shout at Brownfield 'Faggot!'…. A worried (almost hysterical) Brownfield is kneeling beside Riley when the emergency vet injects the second anesthetic drug. The vet soon informs Brownfield, ‘He’s dead.’ .... The shadowy image of Brownfield’s dead mother appears and whispers to her teenage son, ‘My death is your death, and you will be much younger than me at your death.’ 
        Brownfield’s eyes flew open and he screamed, “Leave me the fuck alone!” .…

Das Ende

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Influence

.... There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy. All the rest — whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories — comes afterwards. These are games; one must first answer. ....

Albert Camus

.... Suicide isn't cowardly. I'll tell you what's cowardly; treating people so badly that they want to end their lives. ....

Ashley Purdy

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  “Endgame” Poof! Goes Rodney the Rat

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