Tremendous Things Read online

  “Just one month, pickle,” Mum said. “If things don’t get better after that, we’ll get you out.” She made it sound like a jailbreak.

  So I kept going to Pierre Elliott Trudeau Junior School.

  And it was a nightmare.

  The cracks about Jeremiah were endless. Some kids tried to get me to cry on purpose, and I’m ashamed to admit they sometimes succeeded. Worse, nobody called me Wilbur anymore. I had a new nickname. None of us—not me, not Mum or Mup—had ever noticed the acronym my initials made.

  Wank.

  I hated going to school. I made up my mind that when the month was up, I would tell the Mumps I wanted out.

  Then, just before the end of September, we were buried in an avalanche of bad luck.

  * * *

  —

  Mup came home from work one day looking shaken. “I was replaced by a robot.” She worked full-time at a grocery store as a cashier. They’d recently installed a bunch of self-serve checkout kiosks; since Mup was last in, she was first out. A few days later, Mum’s TV show—her first starring gig, the whole reason we’d moved to Toronto—went up in flames. Where There’s a Wolf starred Jennica Valentine and my mum, Norah Knopf, as leaders of a pack of female werewolves. But just two weeks into shooting, the producer was arrested for something called money laundering, and production shut down.

  The Mumps scrambled to get jobs, any jobs. I heard them talking late at night; they were terrified we might lose the house we’d recently bought in the heart of Kensington Market. “We counted our chickens before they hatched,” said Mup.

  They were Stressed with a capital S.

  So when the time came to have our family dialogue about school, I just said, “It’s fine. I’m good. School’s good.” And all the little muscles in their faces relaxed, and I knew it was a huge relief, having one less thing to worry about, namely me.

  I kept telling myself it was only two years. Then I would go to high school, where I could start fresh.

  But I was an idiot.

  Because Pierre Elliott Trudeau Senior School is right next door to Pierre Elliott Trudeau Junior School.

  Meaning Tyler—and Wank—moved right along with me.

  “Hey, Frank, is that a half a pack of Certs in your pocket, or is Jeremiah happy to see me?” Kertz shouted in the hall this morning, our first day back after Christmas break. Frank is a new variation of my nickname; as he helpfully explained to me, “it’s a combination of Wank and Freak.” So clever.

  “You’re slower than a sloth, Wan—I mean, Wilbur! Do another lap,” our gym teacher, Mr. Urquhart, said during gym, because, yes, even he has learned my unfortunate nickname.

  “Seat’s taken, Wank,” said Poppy in English class; Poppy, who used to be nice to me until, as a welcome-to-Senior-School gift to me, Tyler had started a rumor that I liked to sniff girls’ bicycle seats. I mean, come on. I have never, not once, sniffed a bicycle seat. Or any seat, come to think of it. But some of the girls took it seriously, and they’ve refused to sit near me ever since.

  “Excuse me, Wank? Could I borrow a pencil?” Jo Lin asked in math class. This one stung the most, because Jo Lin is genuinely kind, to me and to everyone. She wasn’t trying to be mean; she just thinks it’s my actual name.

  Even though I’m fourteen, a letter that I wrote when I was eleven—eleven!—still follows me like a bad smell. It’s like nothing has changed in all that time. Like I haven’t changed.

  But I have changed. I’m much taller, for one. The Mumps were right; I had a massive growth spurt. It happened so fast, they joked that they could hear my bones creaking as they expanded. I literally had growing pains. Now I’m over six feet tall. But my height isn’t an advantage; I don’t play basketball or other team sports, because I’m a total klutz and I tend to duck whenever any type of ball is thrown in my direction. Also, even though I grew taller, I’m still pudgy and soft. And my hair is a weird wiry texture; Tyler likes to tell me it looks like a mass of brown pubes.

  And, well, short of plucking them from my sockets, there is nothing I can do about my bulgy eyes.

  Jeremiah grew with me, proportionally speaking. No one would hire him to be in pornos or anything. But he’s average, like the person he’s attached to. And the random pop-ups are (mostly) a thing of the past.

  As for the rest of my list, I’m proud to say that I can now watch that Sarah McLachlan SPCA ad without crying at least forty percent of the time. Better still, I have one excellent friend—two, if you count Templeton—and for a while Alex and I were friends, but I’m not so sure where we stand anymore.

  I still write all the time, although now I write mostly poetry; stories about dinosaurs and outer space was kid stuff (although, confession, I still love dinosaurs, but seriously, who doesn’t?). And, no, I haven’t published anything yet. But I try to tell myself that my personal suffering will make me a better writer. Tortured artist and all that.

  Regarding number seven, no surprise, this has been an Epic Fail. I will never have a Mutually Loving and Respectful Relationship (Mumps™) before I graduate. Kertz made sure of that. The girls at my school look at me with suspicion, wariness, or sympathy—sometimes a combination of all three.

  And eight—trying to be my best self, be brave, blah, blah, blah—as if. My goals are much simpler now: just try to make it through each day. Head down, mouth shut. Don’t attract any unnecessary attention. He who takes no chances may win nothing, but, news flash, maybe he won’t lose anything, either! ’Cause I’ve already lost some pretty big-ticket items, like (a) my dignity, (b) my self-respect, and (c) any confidence I once possessed.

  My only goal now: try to survive.

  Who Am I?

  When I look in the mirror, who do I see?

  The person I think I am

  Or the person they perceive me to be?

  Which one is the truth?

  Which one is a lie?

  Am I Wilbur, or Wank? I want to break down and cry

  If a tree falls in the forest

  Does it make a sound?

  If you’re labeled, do you become the label?

  (I know—that’s profound)

  No girl will ever love me

  As long as I’m Wank

  I’m viewed as an outcast, or worse

  A blank

  One person is to blame

  For the state of my pain

  He knows who he is, but I won’t name his name

  I dream sometimes that I push my tormentor

  Into the path of a soul-sucking Dementor

  Then I push him in front of a steamroller, too

  So all that is left is a big smear of goo.

  by Wilbur Nuñez-Knopf

  “Tell me about your first week back at school,” Sal said to me on Saturday morning. We were at side-by-side lockers in the change room at the Jewish Community Center, getting naked. I did my best to avert my gaze because (a) it’s rude to stare and (b) Sal is “eighty-five years young,” so he is very, very wrinkly, and I mean all over.

  “It was okay,” I replied. “The Trudeau-Manias have been rehearsing a lot. Mr. P wants us to sound good for our guests.” Our bandleader, Mr. Papadopoulos, had gone to a school orchestra conference over the summer, and he’d met a bandleader from Paris. Rumor had it that they’d had loads of s-e-x, and they’d hatched up an exchange trip so they could see each other again. The French students would arrive on Monday. “We got the name of our exchange students,” I told him. “Mine is Charlie Bourget.”

  “Charlie doesn’t sound very French.”

  “I know, right? I was expecting an Yves, or a Jacques.” I pulled on my red Speedo under the shield of a towel. I do not have a Speedo body; I would much prefer to wear baggy swim shorts; but Sal gave me the Speedo for my birthday, and who am I to insult my be
st friend?

  He held on to my arm for balance and we headed out of the change room, walking at a slow but steady pace. Technically I wasn’t supposed to be in this class, not for another fifty years, at least, but Sal needed my help in the change room, so an exception was made.

  Mup was already on the pool deck, her black curls tucked under a swim cap, her strong frame packed into a navy blue one-piece. The rest of her students—all women, all well past the age of sixty—milled around her. This is one of her three part-time jobs, and I’m pretty sure it’s her favorite.

  When the ladies saw us, they broke into grins. “Our boys are here!” said Ruth Gimbel. Because we’re the only men in the class, Sal and I are treated like rock stars. The ladies pinch my cheeks and muss my wiry hair and bring me home-baked treats, which is pretty awesome.

  But if I’m the drummer in the band, Sal is the heartthrob lead singer. The ladies love him. At least four of them, including Ruth, flirt with him because they know he’s a widower and also, he’s just a spectacular human being.

  Mup started up her music. “All right everyone, into the water!”

  Sal and I hopped into the pool. For the next hour, I let myself go in a way I never did anywhere else. I flung my arms up and shimmied left to right and did the cancan with my legs underwater.

  Aquacise for Seniors is definitely one of the highlights of my week.

  * * *

  —

  Mup had to teach more classes, so when we were done, Sal and I slow-walked to the Royal Ontario Museum, just a couple of blocks away. (Sal gives me a student membership for Christmas every year, and I give him a senior membership for Hanukkah every year.) Sal peered into his canvas carry bag. “What loot did you get today?”

  “Nanaimo bars and chocolate chip cookies from the twins,” I said. “You?”

  “Same. And also an entire chocolate babka loaf from Ruth.”

  “She so has the hots for you.”

  “I don’t disagree. But it’s too soon.”

  “Irma died three years ago.” I’d never met Sal’s wife; she’d passed away before we moved in, but I knew he still missed her a lot.

  “Exactly. Too soon. Plus, if you want the truth, Ruth is a little handsy. She touched my derrière three times in the pool today.”

  “Whoa. Bold.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  We entered the museum and made a beeline for Fulton, our nickname for the enormous dinosaur skeleton that dominates the museum foyer. Our shared love of all things dinosaur was one of the things Sal and I bonded over when we first met. He loaned me some books, and I read him the stories I’d written about a friendly but shy T. rex named, rather unimaginatively, Tex.

  Fulton is not a T. rex; he’s a replica of a Futalognkosaurus that roamed South America. He is huge. His feet rest on two metal slabs that stand a few feet apart.

  We stepped between the slabs and the two of us lay down on the ground, hands behind our heads. We gazed up at Fulton’s bones. It’s one of Sal’s favorite things to do. “Imagine, these creatures roamed this very planet millions and millions of years ago. It’s incredible. Our lives are a blip! Tremendous! But still a blip!” he likes to say. “What a marvel life is!” Sal is full of wisdom that way; having a best friend who is seventy-one years older than me is a gift.

  “You manage to make any weekend plans with Alex?” he asked as we stared up at Fulton’s massive rib cage.

  “No. I tried, but…he had plans.”

  “The boyfriend?”

  I nodded.

  “Ah. That’s too bad. People can go a little nutty when they’re in the first throes of romance.”

  “It’s okay. It just means I get to spend more time with you.”

  “You need friends your own age too, Wilbur. I have friends my own age.”

  “Sal. Wilbur.” José, the regular Saturday security guard, loomed over us. His muscles bulged under his uniform. “You know what I’m gonna say.”

  Sal and José said in unison: “You can’t lie on the floor in here. You’re a hazard to yourselves and others.” José reached down, took Sal’s outstretched hands, and pulled him to his feet. He handed Sal his fedora.

  “I have a treat for you, José.” Sal reached into his carry bag and handed José one of his bags of goodies.

  José’s eyes lit up. “Nanaimo bars. Thanks, Sal.”

  We took the subway and a streetcar back to Sal’s place, which is right next door to ours, part of a series of narrow, attached brick homes in Kensington Market. Some have been painted eye-popping colors, like ours, which is mauve. Sal’s is the original redbrick. The insides of our houses are mirror images layout-wise, but the similarities end there: my family’s place is full of stuff Mum has found on Craigslist and at garage sales; Sal’s place is full of antiques.

  As per our tradition, he made us grilled cheese sandwiches with Strub’s pickles for lunch. This was partly because we love grilled cheese and partly because Sal’s been retired for years and lives on a tight budget; I happen to know he eats a lot of grilled cheese, ramen noodles, and dented tins of soup.

  At twelve thirty, he walked me to the door. “Here, take some babka for the road.” He handed me two thick slices in a baggie.

  * * *

  —

  I bid Sal goodbye and walked down to Foot Long Subs on Queen Street West. Over the Christmas holidays the owner, Mr. Chernov, had promoted me from Submarine Sandwich Creation Engineer to Submarine Sandwich Creation Expert. It didn’t come with a raise, but Mr. Chernov reminded me that it did come with more responsibility, so I guess that’s fair. Since Mr. Chernov was hardly ever there—he managed three franchises—technically I was now the supervisor of the other employees, but I’m not sure they’d gotten the memo.

  “Dmitry, it’s your turn to clean the washrooms,” I told him early in our shift. Dmitry is new to Foot Long, short and sinewy with spiky hair, around my age; he’s also what I would call a problem employee.

  He was texting on his phone, and he didn’t answer.

  “Dmitry. You know the bathrooms need checking and refreshing once every hour.”

  “Sorry, no can do, Dilbert,” he said without looking up.

  “Wilbur,” I said. “Why not?”

  “Health reasons. I have psoriafungalitis.”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “Skin condition. I can’t use strong cleaning products, or I break out in a super-gross rash.”

  I knew I couldn’t make him do something he was medically unfit for—I’d read the eighty-page manual, obvs—so I cleaned the washrooms myself. I don’t know if it’s unique to Foot Long or if it’s a universal phenomenon, but there are tons of people who either don’t understand how to flush, or simply don’t bother to flush.

  When Dmitry went on break Mitzi sidled up to me. She’s also around my age, one or two inches shorter than me, with a powerful build, long red hair, and tortoiseshell glasses. “You know he made that up.”

  “Psoriafungalitis? No, I’m pretty sure it’s a real thing.”

  Mitzi whipped out her phone and punched in the word. She held it out for me to see. “Nope.”

  “Oh.”

  We stood listening to the Muzak for a few moments. She checked her reflection in the window. “God, who designed these uniforms? Pikachu?”

  Our uniforms are hideous—one-piece banana-yellow zip-up outfits made from cheap polyester. I’m guessing they were made to match the cheap, yellow plastic tables and chairs that are bolted to the franchise’s floor. “For what it’s worth, you look pretty good in yours,” I said. “Like Sigourney Weaver in Alien. Or Uma Thurman in Kill Bill.”

  “Meaning, kind of badass?”

  “Definitely.”

  That got a rare smile; most of the time, Mitzi looks disdainful and bored. I have no idea what she thinks of me.<
br />
  If I am totally honest, I find her rather terrifying.

  * * *

  —

  Mitzi and I worked steadily during our shift, unlike Dmitry, who kept disappearing for long stretches into the back. He left fifteen minutes before his shift was officially over.

  George and Deepak took over for Mitzi and me at six. Since it was after dark, I walked her home. “You really don’t have to do this,” she said. “I have a blue belt in karate. I could take down a guy twice your size, and way more handily than you ever could, no offense.”

  “None taken. And I believe you. But it’s on my way.”

  She lives on Shaw Street, and since we were together we cut through Trinity-Bellwoods Park. “I think Franklin’s sick,” she told me. It took me a moment to remember that Franklin was her pet turtle. “He’s slowing down.”

  “But…isn’t that just being a turtle?”

  “Trust me, I can tell. Franklin and I are pretty tight.”

  I dropped her in front of her house. “Well I hope he picks up his pace soon,” I said. “And remember, I won’t be at work for a week.”

  “Oh, right. Your exchange students. Hope it’s fun.” Mitzi did a pirouette, waved goodbye, and headed up her front walk.

  She is a mystery wrapped in an enigma.

  * * *

  —

  When I opened our front door, I was greeted by a blast of warm air, CBC Radio, and Templeton, who scampered into the foyer on his short little legs with a series of delighted, high-pitched barks. “Who’s my good boy?” I said in a baby voice. “Who’s my good sweet boy?” I scooped him into my arms. He aggressively licked my face.

  We headed into the kitchen. Mup’s legs stuck out from under the sink. She likes to say, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” That’s what she did after she was laid off. On top of her three part-time jobs, she decided that if we couldn’t afford to hire anyone to fix our fixer-upper, she’d do it herself. She watches YouTube videos on everything from plastering to basic plumbing; she’s completely self-taught. But she’s also only one woman, and she lives with two spatially-and-mechanically-challenged individuals, so the fixing up is slow going.