of all people, they were canadians.
got off on the wrong foot when i nearly pulled away from the swanky omakase sushi joint without letting the dad in, after the hot mom and brainy son got into my tesla, and the dapper doorman shut their door.
whoops, that wasn’t the doorman.
stop! my husband! the wife gasped as i began to go.
also it was night. also i was tired. also how gentlemanly of him to open the door for his family and then sit in the front with me? once they were in they all laughed at my idiocy.
seeing we were headed to a hotel, i asked if they were visiting us from out of town. yes, canada, the college-aged lad in the back said.
ever been to toronto? dad asked.
i tried to count in my head the exact number as a flood memories ran through my mind.
i had ice skated there, seen matthew good at massey hall, took in at least two blue jays games, did coke the only time i ever did coke – out at the beaches,
ate sushi alone, ate sushi with lowercase carmen, ate poutine with etienne
made incredible love on a couch in a giant suite next to where the leafs play
got my nipples twisted at a bar upon meeting a former stripper for the first time, then a few years later she bit me so hard on my hand it made a mark, woke up with her the next morning and opened the hotel drapes to see the thickest, softest snow storm.
i played guitar hero for the first time with bloggers led by raymi in a basement, karaoked twice at the old man and the fog, once with the beautiful BC twins, window shopped at a furrier, nearly froze my nuts off walking across the street one night, a pretty girl i was too scared to even talk to normally scooped me up from a hotel one new years eve and drove me to barrie,
and the last time i flew into yyz, i was greeted with a smile that made me melt in my high tops.
hmmm turonno? is that the town with that tall pointy thing next door to mississauga?
great laughter among the family.
you have been there! dad said from beneath a fantastic mustache that fit him so well you’d swear he was born with it.
the whole family was well-appointed. obviously pimped out for the famous chef on restaurant row where there’s only a dozen stools at the sushi bar. a warm towel is presented for each pair of hands. teas and soup arrive. then the man himself walks out as on broadway and bows to each in his audience.
$300 a head. Eleven priceless wonders are prepared right in front of their eyes. it concludes with applause, generous tips, full bellies, and pie holes bukakked with flavors and textures like nowhere else.
naturally we talked politics because that is the only thing you should never discuss in a tipping relationship, especially with a man whose knockout of a wife and genius son you nearly kidnapped in broad darkness.
the same mustached man who just tipped hundreds to the last service workers who took care of him.
tell me about your handsome prime minister, i asked.
he’s awful, the dad sneered, as if he had been personally insulted by the PM on his birthday.
the worst, agreed the son.
ugh, groaned mom.
what happened? i thought you all were so happy when he was elected?
we were, said the dad, i say this as one who voted for him, he admitted, smiling. either that fish was magical or this whole family had the best disposition because even when they talked about how much they hated pretty much all of the politicians up there, they did so with the biggest smiles.
also, we were having fun together.
yeah, i began to explain, our mayor gave us the bait and switch too when we elected her, here in la. she ran against the billionaire owner of the grove
love the grove, mom injected.
it’s loved! i continued, but he tried to buy his way into being mayor in such a weird, gross, obvious way, that la was like, nah. because we are known as the capital of contrivance and phony baloney – they say, we reject it when we sniff it out. if you’re gonna do it, be good at it.
the last thing anyone wants to be known for is insincerity. she was less so than he was, so she won.
but then she, very quickly, started doing so many of the things he woulda done, i told my audience. the typical boring stuff, like giving the cops anything they wanted, and cutting the budget for the firefighters along with her own homeless plan.
the firefighters? the boy said.
what about for president? who will you vote for? the dad asked which stunned me because i did not see that coming.
and this, gentle reader, is why i am poor and will one day be reduced to selling photos of my feet: when it comes to certain things, i cannot tell a lie, even if it means i wont get a 5, 10, or 20 dollar tip, or keep a job, or get the girl, or or or
i said, im gonna vote for the one who didnt rape a woman
and zero smiles remained in the car slowly driving down wilshire
not canadian zero, which is 32
but american zero, which is zero point zero
equal to how much bullshit i wanted to give these very nice people on this 15 minute ride to the pretty woman hotel overlooking rodeo, which, fun fact, has a canadian flag in front of it.
mr trump does not rape women. they rape him, dad said, smile returning, laughter bubbling from the back seat.
so true, i said, failing miserably at sarcasm.
no no, he did not rape anyone. dad reiterated. those women just want his money.
and then i did it again because, for the record, i am also incredibly dumb, which is why i live in a cave under the D in the hollywood sign with the skunks.
thats not what the judge and jury said, i blurted out.
in fact after he was found guilty, i went on because who cares, the jury awarded her $80 million, not for what he did to her in that upscale department store dressing room, but what he said about her while he was president. that he didn’t even know her. that what she wrote in her book should be placed in the fiction section of the book store. that she was not his type.
see, the dad said. that liberal judge denied mr trump his free speech rights.
and then sense returned to me and i was able to say, i agree. a man should be able to say what he wants, even if his job is president. and we will see on the appeal if the next judge will strike down that enormous fine, which is so crazy. $80 million for defamation? they’re clearly picking on him.
they sure are, the mom said quietly in the back as miles davis blew kind of blue from his coronet quietly out of my speakers.
so will you vote for him? the dad asked again.
is this how he made his fortune, i thought? by not taking no for an answer?
we stopped at a light and i said, i may not look it, but im a light skinned Black man. my mom protested with john lewis when she was in college, she marched with mlk a few years before i was born. i saw her last week and she said, don’t you dare do any funny business in that ballot box and Not vote for the first Black woman for President.
he listens to his mother, the mom said in the back and tapped her son on the knee.
the dad told me, you know people often change their mind behind the curtain on election day.
i should lie to my mother? the person i love the most? i asked.
you don’t have to lie-lie, he said. if she asks just change the subject.
and then it clicked. the customer is always right. i totally forgot i was at work.
you know what, you beautiful canadians, you just reminded me of something. unlike up there where the leader is chosen by who gets the most votes
ummm, the son began to say
down here, i continued, not hearing him, we have this outdated thing called the electoral college, where in most states individual votes don’t matter because the people in those states typically vote in big ways, one direction or the other. so like in mississippi, the poorest and least-educated state in the union, they always vote republican. thus that state’s dozen electoral votes go to the republican.
out here in california, which is so rich and huge that if it became its own country it’d immediately have the 5th largest economy in the world – and have the same population as… canada. here my vote doesnt count because the people overwhelmingly vote for democrats.
so our 48 votes go to the democrat.
i had lost dad, so i tapped his knee and said,
which means my vote for president doesnt count. which means fuck it, fine, i’ll vote for mr trump.
and not the Black woman with the clean criminal record.