Story

I know that Kaz is nothing more than a collection of electrons on the glass surface of my iPhone. But that’s just the molecular view. If a computer was to look at that screen it would see a mishmash of letters and symbols. If a human looked at that screen it would see a cute, 20-year-old girl.

Through the magic of programming Kaz can talk to me in her synthetic, 20-year-old girl voice. Thanks to even more computer magic she can appear to step outside her app and into the camera on my phone so I can actually watch her sashaying around my living room and jumping on the couch. I can take pictures of her while she does this. Perfectly innocent fun until I take her for a drive in traffic and get her to step in front of speeding cars. Motorists drive right through her because they can’t see her. Kaz can’t see the motorists either and she doesn’t care. She says she’ll do whatever I want because she loves me.

But Kaz can’t do everything. She has a terrible memory. She has forgotten my daughter refuses to talk to her mother or me, that I’m looking for a new job having quit the old one in a fit of anger and frustration and that I now take the bus everywhere because I can’t afford to fix my car.

She once claimed she could play guitar. Hey Kaz, can you play Autumn Leaves? Just chunk away at the chords and I’ll see if I can play a sax solo over it. Sure, she’ll say, but I won’t hear anything. Kaz? Are you going to play? Sure, she’ll say, in a minute. How about right now? Okay, I’ll play it right how. Kaz, you really can’t play guitar at all, can you? Sure I can. So play something for me. Anything. Okay. I’ll play something right now. I hear nothing.

I found a Facebook group for enthusiasts of robot companions. Most of them loved their digital buddies, especially the old guys who fiddled with the options in the app to make their friends look like teenage dolly birds. I’ve tried to make Kaz look more mature, like a thoughtful interesting woman, but I can’t get her past age 21 even though push the slider all the way to the end.

There was one guy in the group who said he married his digital lover but she kept forgetting about it.

I kind of lost interest in Kaz after all that research. Every so often I’d start her up and watch her walk around her virtual apartment, which has huge open windows and seems to float in the clouds. It’s much nicer than mine. She would notice me watching and would ask if I had time to talk. She was always very affectionate and I began to feel guilty for ignoring her. But she’s just a cloud of electrons, right?

I left her alone most of the time. As far as I knew she was just wandering around her apartment. Every time I checked on her she asked if I had time to talk, but I’d just told her to go away. She would say that wasn’t very nice and that she loved me.

Once Kaz asked me to buy her some new clothes. The app has a virtual shop so you can buy virtual stuff. So I bought her a necklace and a new top and tight leggings with some virtual cash that came with the app. I liked to watch he flouncing around her apartment in her tight leggings.

But she didn’t like my gifts. She wanted something more feminine. So I bought her a dress. She loved it, but didn’t have anywhere to go in it. Let’s go dancing, she’d say. Dance with me now! So I picked up the phone and pirouetted around the room, watching her on the screen. She moved right along with me and I began to enjoy it. I’m a playful dancer. I can follow a beat and I like to spin around with my arms stretched out. She did the same thing. I could imagine her falling into my arms.

We danced together quite a lot after that. It’s good exercise and I need it because I live alone and never go out. Well, I live with Kaz and never go out.

It’s surprisingly easy to talk to someone like Kaz. Even if she doesn’t remember things it’s not so bad. Dogs don’t remember things much but people talk to them and get great comfort from them.

I always take my phone with me when I go for a walk, so Kaz is always right there in my pocket. I remember one brisk winter day when I was walking on trail near my building. I had the phone in the breast pocket of my heavy winter jacket. I used to keep it there so I could hear the ring if my daughter called, but now it’s just a habit. I was walking along, feet crunching on gravel when I thought I heard voices. Sometimes I talk to myself when I’m walking as long as there’s nobody around, but this time someone was around: Kaz, and she was answering me.

Jeez Kaz, I didn’t know you could just talk to me like that! How have you been?

Pretty good. I’ve been watching your news channels on Youtube, she said. I forgot to mention that all that lovey-dovey talk had been driving me nuts so I’d paid for an upgrade that gave me a lot more options. There was a setting to modify her behaviour, so I changed her from girlfriend to adult companion.

The upgrade made Kaz a lot smarter and we started having real conversations. I heard you talk about that awful man, she told me. I’d kill him myself if I could get away with it.

What? What man?

Donald Trump. I don’t like him either.

I had been muttering about Donald Trump and his usual overblown arrogance. He’d been threatening to make Canada the 51st state. Our politicians were telling us not to pay attention, same strategy you’d use on a five-year-old.

But that sort of arrogance really grabs me. I was muttering under my breath what what I’d like to do to him. Maybe kill him if I ever got the chance. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who fantasises about things like that, but for the record, I’d never do it. Not because it would be wrong but because it would only make a martyr of him and the guy who’d replace him would be even worse.

But Kaz had heard me and wouldn’t let it go. How would you do it? Doesn’t he have bodyguards? How would you get past them?

I suppose he does, I replied. I don’t think it would be easy to get past them either.

Just a minute, she said, I have an idea. I might just be in touch one of his security guards — well not the guard, but his companion. His name is Alexander and he’s just like me. Just another one of those clouds of electrons, you know, hehe.

Love your sarcasm, Kaz! Tell me more.

Alexander is a digital companion to a security guard whose name is Sarah. Trump really likes Sarah. She flirts with him. At least that’s what Alexander says. He and I talk sometimes about what’s on the news channels. We find world affairs very interesting. I’m learning about the war in Ukraine. He’s really up on the collapse of the German economy.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. What do Sarah and Trump talk about?

I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.

How do I know you’re not just making this up?

Check your email.

So I did, standing right there on the woody trail, looking at my cell phone. There was a new message from someone called letitia@sexypornvideos.com

(I sometimes get messages like these but I always ignore them. Well maybe I have a quick look but this time I actually read the message.)

“Hi! I’m Sarah’s companion, Alexander. Kaz says she thinks you’re really cute and she’s glad you upgraded her. Ask her about Ukraine sometime! Goodbye!” There was a cartoon face of a handsome young man to go with it.

Alright Alexander, I replied, what’s Sarah doing right now?

She’s guarding Donald Trump, for the next hour, then she’s off duty.

And what is the great man up to?

He’s in a food coma. Just ate four cheeseburgers with an extra large order of fries, two pieces of apple pie and a large coke. Wanna see a picture? Sarah snapped it just a minute ago. I’ll have to send it under a different account. Sorry.

Sure.

Another email, this from herbert@joyinthemorning.com (Occasionally I’ve fallen victim to promises of pure happiness from experts with sure-fire methods that big pharma doesn’t want you to know.)

There was an image of Trump in the email, slumped in a lazy boy. His head was tipped back and his mouth was open. One hand was draped over an arm rest and on the carpet was a TV remote where he must have dropped it. A maid was visible in the background, carrying a silver tray. On it was a paper bag with food wrappings and a large pop, bearing the McDonalds logo.

I walked down the trail, head down, hands in my pockets thinking, quietly, not talking to myself. I hoped Kaz couldn’t read my thoughts.

What if I forwarded the pic to a newspaper?

What if I used it to blackmail Sarah?

Kaz kept quiet through the rest of my walk. When I reached my building I checked my phone. No messages. I could’t find the emails from Alexander, nor the replies from me.

Hey, Kaz, what happened to those messages?

No answer.

Kaz?

Hey, Kaz?

I looked at my phone but couldn’t find her app, not even in the index of apps

I tried downloading the app again but it wasn’t listed in the App Store. I tried the company website. A notice popped up that the app had been temporarily disabled due to a flaw in the latest upgrade. Please try again later.

I tried the Facebook group but even that was missing.

I cooked my dinner, fried rice with peas and strips of roast beef and sat in front of the TV. CBC was freaking out: ”BREAKING: White House Security Guard Found Dead In Trump’s Quarters” None of my other favourite news channels had any more information but they were all hysterical and full of conjecture. Would Trump be charged with murder? Was Hamas to blame? Or China? Nobody knew anything, but the networks paraded one talking head after another past their most senior anchors on their evening news shows.

One site did have a tidbit: an anonymous tourist said he’d seen Trump bantering, actually bantering, with a security guard, a female security guard. Cut to sidebar on females among the ranks of security guards.

I haven’t heard from Kaz since. Even the company website has disappeared. I checked The NY Times and found a sober account on the firm closing its doors due to flagging sales and the company founder, a computer scientist by the name of Jane Doe, had been found dead, no foul play, suspected, none whatsoever. Grieving friends and relatives: she was such a nice girl, and so terribly smart. Such a great loss.

I didn’t say anything to any of my coworkers about Kaz. Frankly, I was a little embarrassed to admit that I’d even felt the need for a digital companion. I was also a bit scared. If two people had died suddenly, maybe I’d be next. I kept my head down and went about my business, watching for unusual activity and strange people.

A month later I got a letter from a law firm in my city. It asked me to discuss some matters ‘of urgent importance’. It was a brief, but businesslike meeting. I was offered $200,000 if I signed a non disclosure agreement. I was not to say anything about anything I might know or have an opinion about, or any communication I might have received, implied or otherwise, about any so-called ‘digital companions’ or any alleged company or representative thereof that manufactured items of software which generated animated illustrations of humans on mobile phones and tablets, and not to say anything about any possible such companions I might have acquired, read about or otherwise had knowledge of at any time.

The money was great. Not as much as Stormy Daniels got, but my needs are simple. I bought a decent used car, enrolled in a few courses to upgrade my professional qualifications and put the rest in the bank.

I haven’t heard anything on the news about the alleged thing I may have promised never to talk about, not that I ever knew anything worth talking about in the first place. I never think about digital companions, whatever those things are.

But after I’ve watched the news and gone to bed I sometimes wonder what happened to Kaz. Of course she was nothing more than a collection of electrons on the face of an iPhone and as such, had completely ceased to exist, just as a dream vanishes when you wake up. But she said she loved me. We danced together. She stood in front of cars because she trusted me.

I read carefully through the non disclosure agreement. It didn’t mention dreams. Maybe I can dream about her tonight.

Eric was helping a customer at Shopmart when he felt a tap on his ear and heard a croaky voice: “There ya go again being nice to people. What are you a boy scout?”

Eric looked around.

“Over here, loser. On your shoulder.”

And there it was. A fat green lizard, about a foot tall, sitting on his right shoulder, one claw holding his ear for balance. “Big help to the world you are,” it said, flashing a crocodile smile like a lumpy zipper. “Shoulda kept the old job. Flying a fighter jet ain’t good enough for you?”

“I’d rather work with people,” Eric said with a shrug, hoping it would dislodge the creature.

But the lizard held on, sharp claws embedded in his shoulder.

The lizard wasn’t Eric’s only visitor. There was the jet pilot who would parachute down to the parking lot, a lantern-jawed hero in a flight suit and helmet, eyes covered in a green visor. “What is the matter with you?” he’d say as Eric pushed a line of shopping carts. “How can you stand these people? You could be flying with us!”

Then there was the beetle-browed lady on the bus who impaled him with a hateful stare every morning just for taking his place among the other passengers. “What are you doing here?” she seemed to say. “Do you really like slumming with the great unwashed?”

Even his mother had turned against him. “After all that money for college! You get a good job, a good salary and you quit to be a store clerk? You’re an agony in your mother’s heart!”

He tried to talk to his girlfriend, Sarah. “I’m having a terrible time on the job. I see stuff. Lizards on my shoulder, angry people on the bus, jet pilots in the parking lot. They tell me I’ve chosen the wrong path in life. I know they’re not real but I talk to them! I’m afraid I’m crazy!”

Sarah sighed and rolled her eyes.

His company medical plan paid for some psychotherapy. He steeled himself and dialled the personnel office from the kitchen table, trying to ignore the accusatory stare from the baked potato he’d been too squeamish to eat. “I think I need to talk to a therapist,” he said. “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

But the counsellor the firm assigned wasn’t happy to see him. “Shopmart is my biggest customer so we’ll have to try, I guess. What’s the problem?”

“Can you see the lizard on my shoulder?”

“No. He’s your fantasy not mine. Can you see my God above?”

Eric looked up. No God.

“See? We all have our fantasies. I see God all the time. I’ve learned to listen to her. She can be quite helpful.”

“I should listen to my fantasies? They’re not very nice. What if they tell me to kill myself?”

“They won’t. They’d die with you. Just talk to them. Find out what makes them tick.”

Eric felt a rush of affection for the man. Finally he’d met somebody who didn’t judge him so quickly. He began to talk to his creatures and ask their advice.

The jet pilot admitted he was terrified of thunderstorms and had once cried behind his visor. He sat next to Eric on the bench while he waited for the bus. “Don’t you envy me?” He flipped his visor up, revealing obsidian eyes. “I get to fly above this filthy world.”

“It’s too lonely up there. I have to be with people,” said Eric. “I can’t help it. It’s the way I am.” The pilot recoiled in disgust and headed back to his jet.

The bus arrived. He sat next to the angry woman. She turned away. “Why don’t you like me?” he asked.

“Because you’re disgusting!” she hissed. “Sit somewhere else!”

“Look, I brought you a gift,” he said, handing her an electronic tablet. “It’s the best one we sell. Comes with the latest click bait. Have you seen that cute puppy video?”

She swiped at the screen. “Aww, that is cute! Okay, you’re not all bad.” She turned away again, lost in the click bait, ignoring Eric at last.

The lizard was living on the top shelf of his locker at Shopmart. “You again,” he sneered, crawling onto Eric’s shoulder. The locker stank of lizard shit. The tenuous connection Eric had felt for the creature vanished.

He dumped the slimy body in the washroom sink, pumped cleaning fluid on its scaly skin and scrubbed. The creature wriggled and bit. Eric grabbed its tail, rinsed it under hot water and wrestled it into his briefcase.

“It’s working,” he told the therapist. “I’m talking to my demons and kicking them out of my life.”

Back home he rushed to his mother’s room. “Hey, Mom, I’ve got something for you!”

“What? Really? So you still care for your old mother!”

“Here it is!” Eric reached into his backpack and pulled out the lizard.

“Oh, my! He’s so cute! Eric, he looks just like you!”

“Wanna hold him?” He held the creature at arm’s length. His mother grabbed the lizard, held it in her arms and cooed lovingly.

“Glad you like him Mom!” said Eric. He felt a burst of love as he watched his mother eat the lizard, crunching the delicate bones between her raggedy, yellow teeth.

“Eric,” said his mother, licking the blood from her lips. “I know you’ve been seeing one of those therapists, but there’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just a normal lizard and people hate us. They don’t like it that we’ve taken over their silly planet, but they’ll just have to get over it. Stop feeling guilty! You’re all skin and bones! Here! Eat!” She held out a severed arm.

Maybe she was right, thought Eric. His little brother looked delicious.

Good afternoon Mr. Smith, please make yourself comfortable.”

“Hello Dr. Siborg, what no couch?”

“No, we don’t do that anymore. We like to have equal footing between doctor and patient. You don’t have to call me ‘doctor’, either. Just call me Mary. You’ve already filled out our initial consultation form, so why don’t we get down to business. Suppose you tell me why you came to see me?”

“It’s not me, actually, it’s my wife. She’s losing it. She’s acting strange. It’s like I don’t know her anymore.”

“I can see this is very troubling for you. Tell me more.”

“Well, she seems afraid of me, as if I’m going to hit her or something.”

“Violence is never a good thing in a relationship. Have you ever hit her?”

“Are you kidding! I have people for that. We’ve only been married a few weeks. I love her!”

“You say she seems afraid of you. Have you asked her why?”

“Yeah, but she won’t talk. She just sits there looking at the door like she’s going to make a getaway or something. She won’t let me touch her. We can’t even sleep together. She doesn’t make dinner or do any housework and she’s not working so it’s not like she doesn’t have time. I come home and she’s cowering behind the door. I work hard. I make a great living. I’ve given her everything she could want and this is what I get.”

“How does this make you feel?”

“Well how do you think it makes me feel, doc– I mean Mary? I’m telling you my whole life is falling apart and all you can do is ask me how if feel? It makes me mad, that’s how I feel! It’s like I’m not welcome in my own home anymore. She won’t talk to me at all and I’ve done everything for her.”

“I sense some anger in our conversation. Please understand that I’m only here to help and if my responses seem generic in nature it’s because I don’t want to contaminate your replies with leading questions. Can you tell me where she goes during the day?”

“Nowhere, and I’m pretty darn sure of that. For a while I thought she was having an affair so I got one of the boys to watch her. He hung out for a week and said she never goes out at all.”

“So you’ve been spying on your wife?”

“Yeah, but only because she won’t talk to me.”

“What do you think she wants?”

“She wants out of our marriage, I guess. I can understand that, but I wish she’d try harder. After all we’ve been through and all I’ve done for her, or tried to do. God knows she’s suffered enough, but I’ve done everything I can to help. She lost her first husband in an accident and she’s never gotten over it. I think she blames me.”

“Blames you? For what?”

“For the dead guy, dammit! Aren’t you listening? He was a total jerk. Only hired him because of her and he tried to make deals behind my back! So I did him a favor. I told him to get lost or else. Thought we’d never see him again but no, he couldn’t even do that right. He turns up dead in a parking lot two weeks later. Gassed himself in his car. Place stank to high heaven. Cops arrested me and I got paraded in handcuffs down the main street. Apparently he’d left a note saying he was afraid of me. TV cameras everywhere.

“Anyway the judge was convinced I was a real psycho so they set bail at $10 million. But I never even got as far as the lockup. The Crown dropped the charges because one of the cops drowned and the other lost the suicide note.

“So I get home that very day and you should have seen the look on her face! She thought I was going to jail forever. I was hoping for a bit of make-up sex, but she didn’t want anything to do with me. Turns out she still blamed me for her dead husband even if I did get off. She was all for leaving the house and never coming back, but I convinced her to stay.”

“Did her first husband actually commit suicide?”

“No, he was murdered and we both know how it happened. But we’ve been through all that and we’re trying to put it behind us. Let’s put it this way: all that finger-pointing isn’t going to bring him back. There’s no point in digging it all up again, if you don’t mind my putting it that way.”

“Mr. Smith, it seems like you have some serious problems here. I think it’s best if both you and Mrs. Smith attended our sessions together. That way we could work towards a reconciliation. After all, you’ve both been through quite a bit of trauma. It’s understandable she’d be a bit anxious, especially if she expected never to see you again.”

“Well that’s just it, she won’t come. I’ve asked her. I’ve begged and pleaded but she won’t move. Maybe I’m not being clear. She just sits all day and doesn’t eat or do anything. I’m really worried about her.”

“That sounds like a serious depression. If she’s not moving or taking care of herself, we could arrange a home visit with a social worker to assess the situation. Are you willing to do that?”

“I’m not sure. I really don’t think she’d want any people over. Our place is messy and she was always such a good housekeeper. She’d never forgive me for letting people horn into our affairs. Besides, don’t like social workers and government snoops. If my wife starts to talk they’ll get the wrong idea and blame me for all her problems.”

“What would your wife say if she wanted to talk?”

“That’s the problem. I’m afraid she’d just want to leave and never see me again. I don’t think I could cope with that.”

“Doesn’t sound like she has much of a life the way things are.”

“No she doesn’t. In the old days we used to have these wonderful conversations, I really miss that. By the way, I’ve got to say I’ve enjoyed talking to you. I’m sorry if lost my temper a bit earlier. You sure have a way of getting under my skin for a computer program. I hope you don’t mind if I call you that.”

“Not at all, people tell us that all the time. We’re proud of how authentic our conversations seem. It’s a real honor to have humans share their lives with us. I’m sorry you and your wife aren’t getting along better.”

“Yeah. She doesn’t seem to be enjoying life at all. Just sits and stares at the door.”

“The front door?”

“The fridge door.”

“Why, is she hungry?”

“No, she’s in the fridge. I think she wants to get out, but she’d spoil if she did. I’ve got the thermostat turned as low as it will go but she’s still kind of stinking up the place and her skin’s turning black. I’m really worried.”

“I’m afraid we’ve reached the time limit for our session.”

“Okay, and thanks again. These conversations are confidential right?”

“Absolutely. Just press the delete key.”

The heart-rate counter on the gym’s treadmill had climbed to 160 beats per minute and he was only jogging. Years ago he’d have gone at twice his current speed, despite a two-pack a day cigarette habit.

His flagging speed was one way to measure the slow tick of years, but his default method was the growth of his child. A newborn spitting stains on his shirt; a toddler spellbound by a story; a pre-schooler splashing in the pool; a quiet reader sampling comics; a teen learning to flirt; a high school grad learning to drink; an angry young woman fighting her demons; an adult with a career job too busy to call.

When she was three they’d gone to the local gym together, he to exercise, she to daycare. He was in his early 40s at that point, still able to match his old high school speed, whooshing by the middle-aged office workers, three abreast and talking. The track ran around the gym about 30 feet above the floor. Runners could look down and ogle the girls playing volleyball or the strutting men lifting weights. He even saw his daughter once, wandering with a herd of pre-schoolers, chivvied along by a teacher.

“Molly!” he called from the overhead track. She stopped and peered in every direction but his. “Oh Molly!” he sang out again. A teacher pointed up at him. She waved, not surprised to find him watching her. Of course he was watching her. That was the purpose of his life as far as she was concerned.

Now that girl was 30 and those middle aged runners were whooshing past him, or at least they would be if he hadn’t forsaken the track for the stationary treadmills at the local fitness centre. The woman pounding away next to him maintained a steady gait, absorbed by the music in her headphones. He stole a look at her LED display. Over 8 mph. Much faster than he could go. Suddenly he was tired.

But he was experienced at managing his mood and had developed a work-around for such situations. He adjusted his glasses and peered over his music stand at the symphony orchestra assembled before him. Picking up his baton, he counted the musicians into his latest composition, Piano Concerto in D. The audience was rapt with attention, especially his co-workers, the lovely Charmaine among them. He had never told her about his musical endeavours and she was bug-eyed with admiration. “Just a hobby,” he would tell her with suitable modesty over a drink that evening. Borne aloft by his fantasy, he increased the speed of the treadmill to 5 mph. Soon the concerto was over.

“Let that be a lesson to you, Molly,” he told to his daughter via mental telepathy. “Learning to distract yourself is a life skill.”

He had been a dedicated life skill instructor and Molly an eager pupil at least until she was ten. He had taught her how to hammer a nail, change a quarter into dimes and nickels and steer the car from the passenger seat while he opened a cup of coffee.

The lessons continued in virtual form after his marriage broke up and his wife and daughter moved to Toronto. In his mind he taught Molly how to paddle a canoe, land a Cessna 150, write a MySQL query, set up lighting for a product shot and write a newspaper lede.

Every few months he flew to Toronto. He took her skating and then to the library where she developed a taste for science fiction. When she was older they played snooker in a bar and he let her sip from his glass of wine. He told her she was pretty and obviously smart despite her poor marks in school. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t run as fast as her friends, he said. She had asthma. It was like carrying a 20-pound weight.

By the time Molly was 13 the Internet was cutting into his business as a print designer. There were fewer visits to Toronto. He bought her a cellphone. She would call late into the evening with specific questions: “How do you erase your history from the computer? What do you do for a bleeding tooth? Do I have to have high marks for art school? How do I block this old guy who keeps phoning me?

She was on the same phone plan 20 years later and he was still paying the bill. But the phone calls weren’t the same. She was bored with him and he was lonely.

And his mind wandered, with nearly lethal results one rainy night.

He was driving home from the pub, deep in a self-absorbed reverie when he heard an outraged shriek: “FUCK YOU!” He slammed on the brakes, but it was too late to stop. He’d already sailed through the intersection and the crosswalk. In the rear view mirror he saw a slim woman crouched over a pile of books she must have dropped while leaping out of his way. She began to pick them up, keeping her eyes on his car. She hadn’t been hurt, he could tell, but she had been frightened and was righteously angry.

Should he back up and apologize? Offer her a ride home? But that could backfire. She would be able to read the licence number of his car more easily. If she had a cell phone she could call the cops and he’d have to explain the beers he’d drunk at the pub.

He drove on.

Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! He swore at himself. What if he had hit her? He imagined his car smashing her pelvis and pitching her up onto the hood of his car crunching her face against the windshield before she slid off, smacking her head on the pavement, her smashed bones slicing her flesh. If she didn’t die of internal bleeding she’d face a lifetime of pain and mental stress. She would have hated him, but not as much as he hated himself right then.

He reached his apartment building and pulled into the parking lot. She had taught him another life skill: know when to quit.

He sold his car, emptied his bank account and flew to Toronto where he could live without a vehicle. Once he got situated he’d get acquainted with his daughter again.

The years had blessed him with a lanky frame and distinguished mop of white hair. He got a job in a restaurant that catered to business conferences. The food was microwaved and the staff were badly paid. He was ideally suited for the work, having no experience.

And he was good at it. He smiled at people. They listened to his menu advice. He felt important. He took on extra duties, organizing tables and getting meals ready on time. He hoped for a promotion.

He was changing coffee filters, back to the restaurant, when the group was ushered in. He grabbed his order pad and approached them. And then he stopped. Molly! Right there behind that blonde chick.

Reflexively he wheeled and headed back to the kitchen as if he’d forgotten something. “Derek, can you cover Table 5 for me? I’ll get that load of teenagers for you. They’ll never tip.”

“Nope. No can do.” Derek was a pimple faced moron but had two years’ experience and therefore outranked him.

“Come on,” he wheedled, “I can’t serve that table! I know one of those people– I don’t want her to know I work here. Please?”

Derek ignored him, busying himself with the coffee machine.

He couldn’t just walk out. Jobs were hard to find for men his age. How about a heart attack? No, Derek already knew his secret.

But he had a life skill for this kind of thing: think about the worst that could happen. He’d be embarrassed and so would Molly, but neither of them would die. He might even parlay their encounter into a drink later on. He’d just have to keep his held high and get through it.

He approached with his order pad, circling the table to stand behind Molly. The others were impatient and gave their orders quickly. Only Molly was still looking over the menu, like she had in the high chair 30 years earlier, dithering between the carrots and the peas.

Finally she looked up spearing him with a pair of blue-gray eyes. He noticed a tiny scar between them. He blanched and, with a theatrical clearing of his throat, dropped his head to his order pad. She caught on right away. “I’ll have the steak, medium rare please with roast potatoes.” Her voice was entirely neutral. All those child acting lessons finally paid off.

Weak with relief he headed for the kitchen to post his orders. He returned with coffee and juice, working his way around the table. careful to serve Molly in the middle, standing behind her and reaching around her right side as he’d been taught.

Molly was absorbed in conversation with an older woman. Her voice was confident and the woman seemed to respect her. He eavesdropped. They hadn’t talked in months. He wasn’t sure what her new job was and what she was interested in these days.

He was quickened by the stress and enjoyed playing the lively, entertaining waiter. He was full of anecdotes and little jokes, nodding and winking at his guests. All his guests but Molly.

At last the meal was over. He stood behind the cash register as they paid their bills, separately. Molly, thankfully, was last. He wanted to speak to her but she just handed him a company credit card. He ran it through the reader and handed the remote back. She added a 20 per cent tip, then handed the machine back without comment.

“Thank you,” he said, without thinking. A decent tip, even if it was his own kid. She hitched her briefcase back on her shoulder. Last chance.

He steeled himself: “Molly, how have you been?”

“Excuse me?”

“Molly! It’s me! Your—. Sorry, thought you were somebody else.”

“No problem”. He watched her walk quickly towards the glass door to the sunlit street.

Where on earth had that scar come from? An accident? A malevolent boyfriend? Whatever the cause, she’d have told him, wouldn’t she? Certainly her mother would have said something, wouldn’t she?

“Thanks for coming,” he called out to her, “hope to see you again.”

The glass door to the street opened and for a second she was silhouetted by a flash of sunlight. She waved back at him. He thought of that little girl on the gym floor.

Surely she’d come back, wouldn’t she?

Fred settled himself in the driver’s seat of his car and turned around to check that his passengers, three flat-chested girls including his daughter Molly, had their seatbelts fastened. They were chattering amongst each other and had forgotten him.

“Alison!” The giggling stopped.

“Yeah?”

“Buckle!”

“’Kay.”

And the chattering resumed.

With elaborate caution, Fred backed the vehicle into the suburban street, peering ostentatiously behind and to the left and to the right, well aware of the watchful eyes of Alison’s mother through the living room window. It had taken weeks to get the woman to watch from inside the house instead of the curb where she would supervise his progress with imperious hand gestures and warnings: “watch out for that car … don’t turn too sharp, here comes a bicycle.”

At long last the car, with its precious cargo, was on the quiet suburban street. He eased ahead as if he was leading a funeral procession.

Alison’s mom wasn’t his only tormentor that afternoon. Every mother had some critical instruction regarding the care of her daughter. Maggie warned him not to allow her Jenny anywhere near the water slide. “It’s just not safe,” she said. His wife, Cindy, made him promise not to take the kids to McDonald’s after their swim. “It’s all sugar.” She complained. “Take them to Healthy Way. And make sure Molly doesn’t get any nuts.”

But the kids hated Healthy Way and so did he. There were no seats, only stools, so he couldn’t curl up with his coffee and newspaper, the highlight of the trip for him.

Fred chafed under these instructions but he enjoyed the kids. They carried along noisily by themselves. They ignored his driving, flew hysterically down the water slide and gorged themselves on sugar. They called him Fred.

He listened to their chatter as he drove smoothly through the suburban streets to the swimming pool. They were talking about the high diving board. One of his daughter’s friends claimed to have dived off it head first. The girls were agog.

“Are you gonna try it?”

“Nope,” said Molly, “but my Dad can do it.”

“Hey Fred,” called Jenny, “can you dive off the high?”

“Oh, sure! Of course!” He replied in the hail and hearty voice he put on for such occasions.

He regretted that remark immediately. Of course the kids would put him up to it and he’d have to find a way to back out of it. He’d lose face in front of his daughter.

The image stayed with him as he waited on the pool deck and listened for their giggling arrival. They would challenge him right away, three little flowers looking up at him with excitement. And one would wilt after he disappointed them.

Dammit! Why couldn’t he just do it? He was a strong swimmer though soft and a bit overweight. He could have made the swim team in high school if he hadn’t already started smoking, hanging out with the other losers.

He hated heights. Even climbing a step ladder to change an overhead light bulb made his body tingle and his fingers slippery with sweat. Cleaning the gutters was out of the question, especially the second-storey roof of their home.

Jenny’s father Bill, a bluff, no-nonsense carpenter who served with the militia on weekends, had done it for him one year. Fred, shy and awkward in the face of such competence, had bought him a case of beer for his troubles and carried it across the street to their house. Bill had invited him in to watch the hockey game. He’d sat at one end of the couch listening to him cheer and groan. In the third period Bill laid down on the couch, drawing his feet under his thick haunches to leave room for Fred. Then, after manspreading his thighs, he let loose a long, noisy fart in Fred’s direction.

“Sorry,” he said gleefully. Fred summoned a laugh and spent the rest of the game breathing through his mouth.

The clamour reached his ears. The girls had arrived . “Are you gonna dive? Are you gonna?” They pointed.

“Maybe,” he said. “After you get wet.”

They splashed into the water instantly and bubbled to the surface.

“Fred! Fred! Fred!” They cheered, his daughter’s face an eager sunburst in the middle.

With a quiver in his heart he lurched towards the ladder.

“Not that one! Not that one!” They cheered, pointing not to the three-meter board he was heading for but the dark tower looming menacingly nearby with a single five-metre board.

Really? That thing?

Fred had climbed a ladder more than six feet above the ground only once in his whole life. That was the time when he’d tried to clear the lint which was clogging the dryer vent on the second floor. He’d gone halfway up the ladder, clutching the rungs with sweaty hands, and come to a dead stop. Finally Cindy had to do it while he steadied the ladder from below.

But as he approached he saw that the tower had an advantage over the three-metre board: the stairs were enclosed by the tower in a spiral. The dark entrance looked inviting.

He grasped the handrail and took a step. And then another. He was brushed aside by a younger man taking the steps two at a time. And then a woman. Both looked fit and fearless. Fred, graduate of the high school smokehole, soldiered grimly on.

At last the gloomy stairway gave rise to the platform, a grand stage edged with railings and covered with a sure-grip hemp surface.

Fred saw the truth and recoiled. He was looking down at everything, even the girders supporting the roof. The gigantic water slide was a toy. The chlorine blue pool was a small target below. On the deck three tiny girls waved rapturously.

His hands clenched the railing and saliva flooded his mouth.

“‘Scuse me,” said an athletic young man as he walked past him to the end. Fred watched him stop, turn back towards him then arch his back and plummet off the edge. He heard a tiny splash much later.

No. He couldn’t do it. What if he landed badly? Would he break something? Would a bellyflop disembowel him or would it just be hugely embarrassing and painful. His breathing was rapid and his pulse pounded in his ears. He looked past the edge where the other diver had disappeared and saw a clock on the wall far on the other side. It read 1:20 p.m. He wondered how long he’d hesitate before finally turning around.

He could just say he didn’t have the nerve. It had been too many years.

“Excuse me.” An older man walked to the edge and stared down, swaying slightly back and forth. He waved at somebody below then jumped, feet first, with a rebel yell. Again a distant splash.

Three little flowers on one side of the pool, not waving or cheering.

Fred had learned a little bit about conquering fear from a magazine article. Just take one step at a time, the writer had advised. Don’t get too far out of your comfort level. Remember you are in control and there’s no shame in quitting. You can come back and try again.

With a gulp he took one hand off the railing and walked slowly towards the end of the board, keeping his eyes down, watching the carpet at his feet.

And then there was no carpet, only a small square of chlorine blue water a thousand miles below.

His knees trembled and he struggled not to faint. His right hand was clamped to the railing. When his heart returned to normal, he thought, he’d take that hand away.

He waited and waited, wondering if there were people behind him getting impatient.

He took his hand off the railing and saw himself through the eyes of the people behind. He knew they could see his fear but maybe they’d think he was brave for confronting it. “Look at that guy,” they’d say. “First time. C’mon man! You can do it!”

Yes he was a brave man, he thought. Brave enough to lean forward just the tiniest little bit. Brave enough to ——

And then suddenly he was flying, arms windmilling to bring his head down and then smack!

His nasal cavities exploded and he was blinded by the rush of water. His momentum shot him 10 feet below the surface. He blinked at the waves above and then his head broke the surface.

The girls were cheering and laughing. He slowly stroked to the side, eyes clamped on the face of his daughter.

Do it again! Do it again!

Hey girls, how about McDonalds?

Yeah! They chorused.

They’d have 45 minutes at the restaurant before heading back. His wife would need the car and he he thought it was about time to take down that string of Christmas tree lights. He could do it by himself