There's a live feed from the Perth-Fremande ballroom dancing semifinals coming in, so Dad and I are watching it. You know how he gets during semifinal season."
Dad is a ballroom dancing fanatic. I spent my preteen years being abandoned on the sidelines of dance club floors while dad studied and practised. Mom won't go near a dance floor. I heard a wash of flamenco music. "Where's Mom?"
As if on cue, Mom said, "Greg, is that Ethan?"
"Yup."
She took the phone. "What do you think of your new furniture?"
"It's . . . overwhelming"
"I think your brother is just a dreamboat. And aren't you lucky his friend, Kam Fong, has such a generous heart and gave you such an amazing array of luxury furniture? You must have done a terrific job helping him redo his accounts and balances spreadsheets."
Words failed me and then re-entered my life. 'Yes, I certainly am lucky."
Mom was on to a new topic. "Ethan, I need your help tomorrow. I have to make a collection."
"Mom, I have a job."
"Nonsense. I'll phone young Steven and tell him it's important to me that you take the afternoon off."
'You're still talking with Steve?"
"Of course. I made him a pie today, too. He works so hard, and hard workers need treats every so often."
Mom handed the phone back to Greg. I looked around me and noticed something else. "Greg?"
"What,bro?"
"Everything here is on . . . an angle."
"Oh, that. Yeah. Kam brought in his feng shui guy."
"Thanks."
"Ethan, you sound pissed off. This is the last time I ever try to help you out. Ooh, look at me, Tm an information worker. My job is clean and environmentally friendly and futuristic —"
"Greg—" Experience has taught me to simply ride out Greg's diatribes until they stop.
"Hey, Ethan, you know the guy who stood in front of the tank in Tiananmen Square? He's the guy who hot-glued the faceplate over the keypad in the phone you're using."
"Greg, I have to go."
He changed his tone. "Hey, speaking of sweatshops and toxins, I'm flying back to Hong Kong tomorrow. Want anything?"
I thought about this. "Can you pick up an assortment of bootlegged games for me? I've got a bet going with Cowboy that he can't properly detect boodegs. Just buy a bunch at random. Nothing over two bucks."
"Done."
. . .
Mom's pie worked. The next day I left jPod at noon and passed Steve's Touareg by the main security booth down the hill. He gave me a rehearsed-looking thumbs-up, and that was that.
At Mom's we switched to her K-car wagon and drove out into the Fraser Valley amid a chilly monsoon. I was wearing another outfit cobbled together from smugglees' remnants. Mom took one look at it and said, "Oh, Ethan. You're dressed like a new sie in a Broadway show."
"I told you, it's my new style."
"How am I going to make a collection with you dressed up like a ragamuffin?"
There was a twenty-mile patch of fashion-induced tension before Mom stopped editorializing about my personal style. We were headed to Maple Ridge, a suburb on the city's easternmost extreme—largely built overnight, with overtaxed roads that burped along at a speed best described as digestive. The clouds were so dark it felt like we were night driving. Mom gunned the engine and cut off an impatient Prelude driven by a baby boy with a new driver tag in his rear window.
"Tell me more about this Jeff Probst celebrity. What do you think he's like in real life?"
"Jeff Probst?"
"Yes, Steven has got me intrigued."
"Well, he hosts this show where he's always having to deliver bad news to people. He's like a professional firer they bring in to do mass layoffs. In the first few years of the show, he tried to display empathy, but I've noticed that as he ages and sees more of the world, he's realizing that bad news is a part of life, and that when you have to give it, just say it and get it over with. He's a regular kind of guy, but at the same time, he's not."
"Does he skateboard?"
"Not that I know of."
"Does he wear silly baggy pants and oversized nonsense
Dad is a ballroom dancing fanatic. I spent my preteen years being abandoned on the sidelines of dance club floors while dad studied and practised. Mom won't go near a dance floor. I heard a wash of flamenco music. "Where's Mom?"
As if on cue, Mom said, "Greg, is that Ethan?"
"Yup."
She took the phone. "What do you think of your new furniture?"
"It's . . . overwhelming"
"I think your brother is just a dreamboat. And aren't you lucky his friend, Kam Fong, has such a generous heart and gave you such an amazing array of luxury furniture? You must have done a terrific job helping him redo his accounts and balances spreadsheets."
Words failed me and then re-entered my life. 'Yes, I certainly am lucky."
Mom was on to a new topic. "Ethan, I need your help tomorrow. I have to make a collection."
"Mom, I have a job."
"Nonsense. I'll phone young Steven and tell him it's important to me that you take the afternoon off."
'You're still talking with Steve?"
"Of course. I made him a pie today, too. He works so hard, and hard workers need treats every so often."
Mom handed the phone back to Greg. I looked around me and noticed something else. "Greg?"
"What,bro?"
"Everything here is on . . . an angle."
"Oh, that. Yeah. Kam brought in his feng shui guy."
"Thanks."
"Ethan, you sound pissed off. This is the last time I ever try to help you out. Ooh, look at me, Tm an information worker. My job is clean and environmentally friendly and futuristic —"
"Greg—" Experience has taught me to simply ride out Greg's diatribes until they stop.
"Hey, Ethan, you know the guy who stood in front of the tank in Tiananmen Square? He's the guy who hot-glued the faceplate over the keypad in the phone you're using."
"Greg, I have to go."
He changed his tone. "Hey, speaking of sweatshops and toxins, I'm flying back to Hong Kong tomorrow. Want anything?"
I thought about this. "Can you pick up an assortment of bootlegged games for me? I've got a bet going with Cowboy that he can't properly detect boodegs. Just buy a bunch at random. Nothing over two bucks."
"Done."
. . .
Mom's pie worked. The next day I left jPod at noon and passed Steve's Touareg by the main security booth down the hill. He gave me a rehearsed-looking thumbs-up, and that was that.
At Mom's we switched to her K-car wagon and drove out into the Fraser Valley amid a chilly monsoon. I was wearing another outfit cobbled together from smugglees' remnants. Mom took one look at it and said, "Oh, Ethan. You're dressed like a new sie in a Broadway show."
"I told you, it's my new style."
"How am I going to make a collection with you dressed up like a ragamuffin?"
There was a twenty-mile patch of fashion-induced tension before Mom stopped editorializing about my personal style. We were headed to Maple Ridge, a suburb on the city's easternmost extreme—largely built overnight, with overtaxed roads that burped along at a speed best described as digestive. The clouds were so dark it felt like we were night driving. Mom gunned the engine and cut off an impatient Prelude driven by a baby boy with a new driver tag in his rear window.
"Tell me more about this Jeff Probst celebrity. What do you think he's like in real life?"
"Jeff Probst?"
"Yes, Steven has got me intrigued."
"Well, he hosts this show where he's always having to deliver bad news to people. He's like a professional firer they bring in to do mass layoffs. In the first few years of the show, he tried to display empathy, but I've noticed that as he ages and sees more of the world, he's realizing that bad news is a part of life, and that when you have to give it, just say it and get it over with. He's a regular kind of guy, but at the same time, he's not."
"Does he skateboard?"
"Not that I know of."
"Does he wear silly baggy pants and oversized nonsense
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