thoughtful, more worthy of respect and social acknowledgment, when he wore a well-fitted suit? When he spoke in full sentences, instead of belches and grunts? When he said please and thank you, vous and not tu, Monsieur and Madame? When he allowed a woman to pass through a door before him? How did it feel, truly feel, to wear bicycle shorts, a fanny pack, and a gigantic T-shirt advertising a sports conglomerate? In the early days of the show, Toby had flattered himself with fantasies in which the male populations of Quebec, Southern Ontario, and northern New England were transformed.
Contrary to his critics’ suppositions, Toby had not set out to reinforce class differences. His broad social goals wereto encourage men of all salaries and births and tastes to see that dressing like a superhero, a hiker, a homeless person, or a sideshow performer were acts of cruelty—to oneself and to others. It was not a frivolous notion. Every day, a man ought to wake up and consider his behaviour and his wardrobe gifts to the community and to the world. Now, what sort of offering is a snort at the checkout while on a cellphone? Camouflage short pants and a Yankees jersey? Why did the man of today spend two hundred dollars a month on satellite television and high-speed Internet access, yet only thirty dollars on clothes from a big-box discount retailer headquartered in Arkansas? Did the man of today not see that he was doomed by this behaviour, that the outer life, contrary to what he might learn in a romantic comedy, had a direct and enduring effect on the inner life? And vice versa? An effect so powerful that a Harley-Davidson shirt might actually erode some of the brain’s higher functions?
Karen had asked him to pick up a frozen pizza for dinner. Toby worried that a week or two of heavily salted prepared food would do further psychological harm to everyone in the house, so he bought the ingredients for his specialty: blackened cod with spinach and mushroom risotto. Steve Bancroft was in the checkout line, flipping through a celebrity gossip magazine, so Toby lingered in the aromatic bulk section until the villain was gone.
In the mid-1990s, his mother had endured a cancer scare. A checkup had led to a chest X-ray and what appeared to be shadows in her lungs. She quit smoking her long miniaturecigars for three weeks, until she learned it had been a mechanical error.
The scent of Old Port through the heavy front door, upon his return, extracted and diffused a fraction of the world’s hope and beauty and reminded him that soon, very soon, they would all be dead. As he opened the door, however, his mother’s tobacco took on a depth and texture he did not recognize. American cigarettes. Gasoline.
Two men sat on the chesterfield. Both of them smoked. Toby recalled seeing a bright red Cadillac sedan and a tow truck parked across from the house, both of them outside the norm of rue Collingwood. He peeked out before he shut the door. PILE TOWING: THE TRUSTED NAME IN TOWING . And here was Randall Pile, all six foot seven of him, in a suit that was at least two sizes too small. Toby recalled, as he approached Randall, that his old friend would have been taller if the doctor had not used hormone therapy to slow his growth. He had matured so quickly in grades six and seven that the muscles, tendons, and bones in his ankles had never fused properly, so he walked with a limp. In high school it had been faint. Now he was in his late thirties, hard living etched around his eyes and the limp more fully—yet lyrically—pronounced.
Randall extended his hand for a shake. “Let me get this right. Remember that show you did on handshakes? Eye contact.” Randall took Toby’s hand and stared down. “Forward thrust, to avoid having your fingers squeezed. Firm, firm.”
“Not too firm,” said Garrett Newman, Randall’s best friend since grade three, who remained seated.
“No, no, not too firm. Then what? Oh yeah, stand not too close but not
Contrary to his critics’ suppositions, Toby had not set out to reinforce class differences. His broad social goals wereto encourage men of all salaries and births and tastes to see that dressing like a superhero, a hiker, a homeless person, or a sideshow performer were acts of cruelty—to oneself and to others. It was not a frivolous notion. Every day, a man ought to wake up and consider his behaviour and his wardrobe gifts to the community and to the world. Now, what sort of offering is a snort at the checkout while on a cellphone? Camouflage short pants and a Yankees jersey? Why did the man of today spend two hundred dollars a month on satellite television and high-speed Internet access, yet only thirty dollars on clothes from a big-box discount retailer headquartered in Arkansas? Did the man of today not see that he was doomed by this behaviour, that the outer life, contrary to what he might learn in a romantic comedy, had a direct and enduring effect on the inner life? And vice versa? An effect so powerful that a Harley-Davidson shirt might actually erode some of the brain’s higher functions?
Karen had asked him to pick up a frozen pizza for dinner. Toby worried that a week or two of heavily salted prepared food would do further psychological harm to everyone in the house, so he bought the ingredients for his specialty: blackened cod with spinach and mushroom risotto. Steve Bancroft was in the checkout line, flipping through a celebrity gossip magazine, so Toby lingered in the aromatic bulk section until the villain was gone.
In the mid-1990s, his mother had endured a cancer scare. A checkup had led to a chest X-ray and what appeared to be shadows in her lungs. She quit smoking her long miniaturecigars for three weeks, until she learned it had been a mechanical error.
The scent of Old Port through the heavy front door, upon his return, extracted and diffused a fraction of the world’s hope and beauty and reminded him that soon, very soon, they would all be dead. As he opened the door, however, his mother’s tobacco took on a depth and texture he did not recognize. American cigarettes. Gasoline.
Two men sat on the chesterfield. Both of them smoked. Toby recalled seeing a bright red Cadillac sedan and a tow truck parked across from the house, both of them outside the norm of rue Collingwood. He peeked out before he shut the door. PILE TOWING: THE TRUSTED NAME IN TOWING . And here was Randall Pile, all six foot seven of him, in a suit that was at least two sizes too small. Toby recalled, as he approached Randall, that his old friend would have been taller if the doctor had not used hormone therapy to slow his growth. He had matured so quickly in grades six and seven that the muscles, tendons, and bones in his ankles had never fused properly, so he walked with a limp. In high school it had been faint. Now he was in his late thirties, hard living etched around his eyes and the limp more fully—yet lyrically—pronounced.
Randall extended his hand for a shake. “Let me get this right. Remember that show you did on handshakes? Eye contact.” Randall took Toby’s hand and stared down. “Forward thrust, to avoid having your fingers squeezed. Firm, firm.”
“Not too firm,” said Garrett Newman, Randall’s best friend since grade three, who remained seated.
“No, no, not too firm. Then what? Oh yeah, stand not too close but not
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