Shadow of the Mothaship | Page 4

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###
Shadow of the Mothaship =======================
It's the untethering of my parents' house that's on my plate today. The
flying of a kite on a windy Toronto Hallowe'en day and the suspension
of worry for a shiny moment.
And sail surface isn't even a problemette when it comes to my parents'
home -- the thing is a three-storey bat whose narrow wings contain the
trolleycar-shaped bedrooms and storages. Mum and Dad built it
themselves while I tottered in the driveway, sucking a filthy shred of
blanket, and as I contemplate it today with hands on hips from the front
yard, I am there on that day:

Dad is nailgunning strips of plywood into a frame, Mum stands where I
am now, hands on her hips (and I take my hands from my hips hastily,
shove them deep in pockets). She squints and shouts directions. Then
they both grab rolls of scrim and stapleguns and stretch it loosely
across the frames, and fast-bond pipes and prefab fixtures into place.
Mum harnesses up the big tanks of foam and aims the blower at the
scrim, giving it five fat coats, then she drops the blower and she and
Dad grab spatulas and tease zillions of curlicues and baroque stuccoes
from the surface, painting it with catsup, chutney, good whiskey and
bad wine, a massive canvas covered by centimetres until they declare it
ready and Mum switches tanks, loads up with fix-bath and mists it with
the salty spray. Ten minutes later, and the house is hard and they get to
work unloading the U-Haul in the drive.
And now I'm twenty-two again, and I will untether that house and fly it
in the stiff breeze that ruffles my hair affectionately.
#
Firstly and most foremost, I need to wait for the man. I hate to wait.
But today it's waiting and harsh and dull, dull, dull.
So I wait for the man, Stude the Dude and the gentle clip-clop of Tilly's
hooves on the traction-nubbed foam of my Chestnut Ave.
My nose is pressed against the window in the bat's crotch, fingers dug
into the hump of fatty foam that runs around its perimeter, fog patches
covering the rime of ground-in filth that I've allowed to accumulate on
my parents' spotless windows.
Where the frick is Stude?
#
The man has cometh. Clop-clip, clip-clop, Stude the Dude, as long as a
dangling booger, and his clapped-out nag Tilly, and the big foam cart
with its stacks of crates and barrels and boxes, ready to do the deal.

"Maxes!" he says, and I *know* I'm getting taken today -- he looks
genuinely glad to see me.
"Stude, nice day, how's it?" I say, as cas and cool as I can, which isn't,
very.
"Fine day! Straight up fine day to be alive and awaiting judgment!" He
power-chugs from the perpetual coffee thermos at his side.
"Fine day," I echo.
"Fine, fine day." Like he's not in any hurry to get down to the deal, and
I know it's a contest, and the first one to wheel gets taken.
I snort and go "Yuh-huh." It's almost cheating, since I should've had
something else nice to say, but Stude gives me a conversational
Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free.
"Good night to tricky treat."
I concede defeat. "I need some stuff, Stude."
Give it to him, he doesn't gloat. Just hauls again from Mr Coffee and
pooches his lips and nods.
"Need, uh, spool of monofilament, three klicks, safety insulated. Four
litres of fix bath. Litre, litre and a half of solvent."
"Yeah, okay. Got a permit for the solvent?"
"If I had a permit, Stude, I'd go and buy it at the fricken store. Don't
pull my dick."
"Just askin'. Whyfor the solvent? Anything illegal?"
"Just