12. The Doctor Is In January 23, 2010

Brian called Dr. Claire Breedlove while he was at work, and set up an intake meeting on Friday afternoon, the day before Halloween. When he came home later, he gave me the address: Dr. Claire’s psychiatric practice was in Willowdale, and only a few blocks from Earl Haig, my old secondary school.

The next couple of days were pleasant enough. In the morning, Brian would head off to work, and I would have some breakfast and watch reruns of Toopy and Binoo or The View (I like Whoopi and Joy, but Elisabeth is a major bitch) before heading out to live as normal a life as possible. On Wednesday, I went to Manpower, my temp agency, and updated my application with them. They didn’t have anything available yet, but they were glad to know that I hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth. I worked out at the gym and strolled around Church & Wellesley. Ever since Evan’s murder, however, I have never stepped foot in front of Buddies at Bad Times Theatre. I don’t even walk on the same sidewalk. The closest that I get to it is the sidewalk across the street. I have this fear that if I step one toe on that block, not only will the memories of that night renew their place in my memory with more vividness, I could end up dead too.

At night, Brian and I would have take-out for dinner. Brian rarely cooked at home, but he knew a good restaurant when he saw it. The first night that we had dinner together, he had brought some food from Blue Bay Cafe. It’s this place in the Roncesvalles neighborhood that serves food from Mauritius, an island country in the Indian Ocean. If you don’t know where it is, Google Earth it or open an atlas. Most of the food was too spicy for my taste, but I did enjoy the samosas.  The following night: burritos and sopas from Tequila Sunrise.

And then, the day came. Friday at 2PM. Rendez-vous with Dr. Claire Breedlove. I arrived at Willowdale Counseling Services, which looked less like a clinic and more like someone’s home. The waiting room was devoid of anything clinical, and instead designed to put the patients at ease: plush furniture, soothing New Age music, those fake waterfalls that you can buy at Shoppers Drug Mart or Loblaw’s or fucking WalMart the same way one would buy a goddamn Chia Pet or Clapper.

By the time 2PM had arrived, I had leafed through the latest issue of Chatelaine and was bored shitless. I didn’t hear anyone come down the stairs to collect me. And fifteen minutes and an archival copy of Deneuve Magazine (before Catherine Deneuve got pissed and they had to rename it Curve), I was pissed. And then I heard:

“Is anyone down there?”

It was a mature, elegant voice, though weathered by time.

“Dr. Breedlove?’ I responded.

I heard footsteps down the stairs, and there stood Dr. Claire Breedlove. Tall, graceful, a head full of bouncy red hair, and wearing a poncho not even Johnny Weir would be caught dead in.

“You’ll have to pardon the poncho; my mother knitted this,” she said. “You must be Graziano. Did I get that right?”

I nodded. She had pronounced it exactly like the Italians do. I would have been insulted had she called me “Grassiano”. The way I see it, it behooves people to get names right, even if you have to feign an accent.

“I’m sorry for the delay, but my staff meeting ran long. Follow me.”

I followed her up the narrow staircase to the second floor. She pointed to her office, which was cluttered. “I should get it organized,” she said, opening the door to a rather threadbare room. It only had a coffee table, a couch, and an armchair. Dr. Claire Breedlove took the armchair, leaving the couch to myself.

“It’s intake time!” she cheered. “Yay!”

You don’t hear “intake time” and “Yay!” in the same breath often. Dr. Breedlove took out a clipboard with an intake form on it. “I took the liberty of filling in your name. Did I get it right?”

She showed me the form. It read “BUONFIGLIO, GRAZIANO G.M.” I nodded in agreement.

“What is your date of birth?”

“6th October, 1981.”

“Gender?”

“Male.”

“Marital status?”

“I was engaged once, but then he died before we could get married. So, single.”

She nodded. “Children?”

“No.”

“What is your address? Oh, wait. You live with Brian Gutensohn, so I already know. I also have your home phone number and your cell phone number. I don’t have your e-mail.”

I dread moments when people ask me my e-mail address. It’s a rather delicate concern for me. Dr. Breedlove was waiting.

“Do you have e-mail?”

“Yeah. It’s just that my e-mail address is a little… embarrassing to mention in public.”

“Really? Well, you do have the right to privacy.”

I thought about it for a moment and motioned for her to hand me the clipboard. I wrote down my e-mail address in the provided form and handed it back to her. She took one look at it, and her eyes lit up.

“How… provocative,” she said. “Anyway… first big question: Have you previously received any type of mental health services?”

“Yeah. I had a counselor at Seaton House, and before that, I had gone to counselors at the 411 Centre and Toronto General Hospital. I even went to Catholic Charities for services.”

“Are you on any prescription medicine?“

I shook my head.

“Have you ever been prescribed psychiatric medication?“

Ditto.

“And now, the biggies: How would you rate your current physical health: poor, unsatisfactory, satisfactory, good, or very good?“

I replied, “Satisfactory.”

“Health problems?“

“I tried committing suicide a few weeks ago. It’s an almost regular occurrence with me. Other than that, I’m in good shape.”

“Okay. How would you rate your current sleeping habits? Same choices.”

“Good. Sometimes, I have nightmares and can’t sleep a wink all night.”

“How many times a week do you generally exercise?“

“Five times a week.”

“Exercises?”

“Bodybuilding, cardio, swimming, and in the winter, I like to go curling.”

She put the clipboard down. “Curling? I don’t associate a guy with your build, with curling.”

“It’s less about athletics and more about concentration and relaxing. In relative terms, of course. Curling is a very demanding sport.”

“Got it. Next question: Please list any difficulties you experience with your appetite or eating problems.“

“I don’t have a problem. I love to eat. I’m Italian. There are days, however, when I’m so consumed with grief and sadness that I’ll just go to Metro and buy food that I already have and go to town on that shit. And then, the next day, I’m off to the gym to burn off the excess calories, only to go have a combo at Harvey’s afterwards and repeat the sick cycle over and over.”

Dr. Breedlove nodded. “Are you currently experiencing overwhelming sadness, grief, or depression?“

“All three in equal amounts. It’s been a lifelong experience.”

“Are you currently experiencing any anxiety, panic attacks, or have any phobias?“

“I can’t walk on the same block as the Buddies in Bad Times Theatre because my fiance was killed near the place. I fear dying. I fear that eventually someone is going to kill me.” My voice began to break.

Dr. Breedlove handed me a Kleenex. I just crumbled it in my hand and squeezed on it. “Are you currently experiencing any chronic pain?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Do you drink alcohol more than once a week?“

“I don’t drink at all.”

“How often do you engage in recreational drug use?“

Again, I shook my head. “I’ve abused over-the-counter drugs, but cannabis, ecstasy, wet… I never touch the stuff.”

“Wet?” Dr. Breedlove’s eyes opened in surprise. “What’s that?”

“Marijuana with PCP and formaldehyde. I took a drug prevention course when I was at university. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“We’ll get to the over-the-counter drugs at a later date,” she said. “Are you in a current romantic relationship?“

“Not since my fiance died. Evan is his name.”

“What significant life changes or stressful events have you experienced in the past year?“

I let out a loud groan.

“Graziano, what does that mean?” Dr. Breedlove asked, concerned.

“I don’t know where to begin,” I said.

“Well, for now, you don’t have to go into detail. What initially brought you to stay with Brian?”

I looked out the window. It was overcast. What a metaphor for my life. “My parents kicked me out of the house. And I had a terrible time at Seaton House, so I took Brian up on his offer.”

Dr. Breedlove stopped. “I need to change my pen,” she said, replacing her blue PermaMate with a silver Hilton Hotel. I wondered what she had been thinking all this time. Did she think that I was beyond help? Did she think that she could be spending her time in Turks & Caicos, lounging on a beach with a cocktail in one hand and a trashy Danielle Steel novel in the other?

And then she said, “Don’t worry. This isn’t boring me. I’m not dreaming of the Caribbean and booze.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. How did she even know what I was thinking? No one knows what anyone is thinking. Even when people say “I know what you’re thinking”, they really don’t.

“Okay, I’m going to list a few things and you tell me if any of your family members have whatever I list. Alcohol/substance abuse?“

“My mother and my sister.”

“Anxiety?“

“No one.”

“Depression?“

“Ditto.”

“Domestic violence?“

“Not at all. Other than them being violent to me. But that doesn’t count, does it? Domestic violence is spouse vs. spouse, isn’t it?”

“It is generally that, but it takes other forms. Who abused you?”

“My mother, my father, my sister, and various relatives.” I clutched the Kleenex in my hand harder.

“You know, Graziano, they make stress balls, so you don’t need to crush the tissue any more,” Dr. Breedlove said, noticing my Kleenex had turned into a crumpled mess. I looked at it, and began to cry. I wiped my eyes with the substantially-reduced sheet of delicate tissue paper. Afterwards, I threw it away and nodded at Dr. Breedlove to continue.

“Eating disorders?“

“No.”

“Obesity?“

“My father is fat, but he’s not obese.”

“Obsessive compulsive disorder?“

“Yes. My parents are obsessively and compulsively obsessed with power and getting rid of me.”

“I was talking about things like excessive cleaning and hoarding, but in a way, that somewhat fits the bill. Schizophrenia?“

“No.”

“Finally… suicide attempts?“

Again, I shook my head. No one in my family, not even before my grandparents moved to Canada, had any of those problems.

“The rest of the form is pretty straight-forward, so you can fill it out and sign it.” She handed me the form and I finished it for her. After I handed it back, she studied it and said, “I think that does it. I’m going to review this further and I’ll call you over the weekend. Provisionally, I think we can work something out.”

“Sure thing,” I said, getting up and shaking her hand. She had a firm grasp, but it was also gentle.

“Can you promise me that you won’t try to off yourself beforehand?” she asked.

“I’ll try to stay alive.”

Dr. Breedlove escorted me out of the building. Overall, the intake went pretty well. As I walked to the nearest subway station, I felt relaxed. It was the first time in my life that I had survived a session with a psychiatrist without feeling insulted beyond belief. Granted, it was only an intake, but still…

I won’t give out my e-mail address in its entirety, but the part before the @ is “packing14inches”.

11. A New Home January 19, 2010

Later that night, after going to the nearest Harvey’s and getting a combo to go, I drove back towards downtown Toronto. I couldn’t help but be excited. After only a few weeks, I was finally going to sleep in a decent, clean, and hopefully comfortable room.

Questions ran through my mind, however. Would Brian and the condo management allow Britney to stay with me? I would never let her go. Would Brian be a good roommate or a bad one? Would I screw this up? This was it. If I didn’t make this a success, I might as well just drive off Scarborough Cliffs and die.

600 Queens Quay West greeted me with twinkling lights. Okay, they were simply lit-up windows, but still. I immediately remembered being in the area once. After Evan had been cremated, I spread his ashes at the waterfront. This was one of his favorite places in Toronto, with a great view, easily accessible via public transportation, and clean.

I parked my car and took my cat and her carrier out, as well as an overnight bag that I had stuffed with clothes and things. I would bring the rest up the next day. I walked in the lobby and the desk clerk greeted me with a “Welcome home, Graziano” in a thick, Tamil accent.

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

“Brian told me,” he replied. He had a twinkle in his eye, if you’ll pardon the cliche. “He’s on the sixth floor.”

“Thanks.” I walked toward the elevator and pressed the button. 30 seconds later, the doors opened and up I went, Britney and some belongings in tow.

At the sixth floor, I walked around and around. I couldn’t find Brian’s condo. Britney became restless in her carrier. I shushed her and walked around some more until a door opened.

“I’m in here, Graziano,” I heard Brian’s voice. And there he was, standing in the doorway. He looked cute in his black terry-cloth bathrobe. “Do you need any help?”

“I got it.” I walked into Brian’s apartment. It was spacious and tastefully decorated; not what I expected from a university professor. I expected books stacked like skyscrapers, sheets of paper haphazardly thrown about, and the musk of an elite educator.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought my cat,” I said, scanning the place. “I can’t bear to live without her. She’s friendly, housebroken, and declawed.”

“Not at all. Just keep her in your room when you’re out,” Brian said. He led me to the guest room, which had a queen-size mattress and a beautiful view of Lake Ontario. I noticed a flat-screen TV, a DVD player, a clock radio, a writing desk, a lamp, and a nightstand. Other than that, it was sparse, and I could barely make out the wall color. Still, it had potential.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’ve eaten already. Can I get some shut-eye?”

“Okay. I’ll be down the hall if you need anything. And… welcome home,” he said with a smile and walked away.

“Thanks,” I replied. I put my overnight bag and backpack near the door and let Britney out of her carrier. The carpet was plush, and Britney rolled around in it like she was Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal. I fell back-first onto the bed. It reminded me of my bed back in Brampton: cozy, warm, and with a Tempur-Pedic mattress. Britney jumped on the bed and settled on my stomach. I drifted to sleep, her purring the only soundtrack to my first night in my new home.

The next morning, I awoke to Britney licking my face. It was then that I realized the room, white with a few tasteful gold accents, looked better in the daylight than at night. I let Britney play on the carpet and headed for the kitchenette. Brian, dressed up for another day of work, was at the counter with a cup of coffee and a piece of paper.

“Did you have a good night’s sleep?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I have a few ground rules.” He handed me the paper. This is what was on it:

GROUND RULES

1. No drinking. I’m a recovering alcoholic.
2. No drugs. General rule of courtesy.
3. Keep Britney in your room for at least the first week. It is your responsibility to feed and care for her.
4. No loud music. My next-door neighbor, Bonnie, hates it.
5. No smoking. Another general rule of courtesy.
6. See a psychiatrist.
7. Get at least some part-time work.
8. Other than that, you have free rein over the apartment.

I could do Nos. 1-5 and 7, but No. 6? After my history with psychiatrists, I was apprehensive.

Brian looked at me. “Is there something wrong?”

“Not really, but…”

“But what?”

“No. 6.”

“Do you have an issue with that?”

“On principle, no… but I haven’t had the best luck with psychiatrists.” I sat down at the counter, feeling dread. I was expecting Brian to kick me out then and there.

But he put his hand on my shoulder. “Why?”

“I’ve been saddled with quacks who either blame me for everything or are too incompetent to give an opinion one way or the other. When I was at Seaton House, the counselor didn’t give me any hope at all. He just nodded his head and said shit like ‘How does that make you feel?’ What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?”

On the verge of tears, I sniffled. “I can’t even pay for the cheapest high-class psychotherapy!” I cried.

Brian took my hand. His touch was smooth and gentle, and covered with a film of Gold-Bond lotion. “One of my friends is a fantastic psychiatrist. Her name is Claire Breedlove. She’s one of the best in the city. I’m sure she can help you. If you go, I’ll cover the bill. Okay?”

I had no idea who this Claire Breedlove was. The name alone hinted at a stuck-up bitch with her hair in a tight bun, granny glasses, and a serious need for therapy herself. But as I could never afford anything on that level, and I would be essentially getting free services, I nodded my head in agreement.

Brian smiled. “Good boy,” he said. “I’m off to work now, so you have the whole apartment to yourself. Get settled in, and I’ll be back in the evening.”

He picked up his briefcase and patted me on the back, and then he exited the apartment. I walked around the apartment, looking around. An atrium had been converted into a dining room. I peeked into Brian’s room: it was both a bedroom and a study, with books and papers neatly arranged but not cluttering the place. It was well-kept, but not anally. Most of my professors at the University of Toronto had offices and apartments that were full of clutter, almost drowning in back-logged academia.

I spent the rest of the morning transporting my things from the car into the apartment. I finished just before 11 o’clock, and my room began to look like home. On the night stand, I put several photos of my grandparents, Ryan, and Evan. Seeing their pictures, knowing that I would in all truth never see them in the flesh again, was a melancholy experience.

Still, I felt good about my new situation. I wasn’t, however, feeling good about seeing Dr. Claire Breedlove.

This is an update. January 8, 2010

I honestly apologize for the lack of posts in the past month. I haven’t had a lot of time to work on my novel. I’ve had the holidays to cope with, and family problems as well. By next week, however, I should have the next chapter up and running. Please be patient. Thanks.

10. Post-Thanksgiving December 22, 2009

I could have accepted Brian’s proposal on Thanksgiving night. That night, I could have traded in a bunk bed in a shelter for a cozy room in a familiar person’s abode. But this sudden gift of generosity stunned me. I had never in my life had such an opportunity come my way. Okay, it was a room, and not a treasure chest with millions of dollars worth in gold and jewels. But still, I was so surprised that it would come this quick, no less than three days after I had been bounced out of Brampton.

I spent the next three weeks weighing my options. In the meantime, I tried to live as normal a life as possible. The Seaton House people allowed us to go out in the daytime, but we had a curfew of 6PM. We had to make sure that we didn’t get into any trouble, we had to report to a counselor every week, and we had to be clean of drugs and alcohol. And it was lights out at 11PM. I spent my free time at the Toronto Reference Library and the Eaton Centre. I went to the gym and worked out, and no one was any the wiser as to my homeless status.

I didn’t like going to the counselor. The one that I had been assigned to was this well-meaning, but rather patronizing, guy named Gilles. He was thin, weathered, and had a thick Quebecois accent. He was the kind of guy who would simply nod and say “How does that make you feel?” and shit like that. In my experience, that was always the kind of counselor who would come my way. High school counselors, social workers, psychotherapists… it seemed like I could never find anyone who would understand me. I wasn’t looking for the next Sigmund Freud, but I would have liked to have had someone even 1/16th the person he was.

Aside from the protocol, life at Seaton House was decent enough. None of my roommates bothered me at all. In fact, we were pretty nice to each other. There were some disagreements, such as leaving the radio on all night long. It wasn’t that in principle that was the disagreement – it was the choice of radio station. I preferred CBC Radio One, but my drag queen roommate preferred Flow FM, and the others wanted the multilingual CHIN FM. We decided to alternate nights.

Outside our room was a different story. There were a lot of fights and shouting and screaming. It was a rare occurence when someone WASN’T being put in a straight-jacket. Mercifully, me and my roommates were never involved in the altercations.

For those three weeks, despite the in-fighting and the regular battles that came with living in a shelter, I slept reasonably well. And yet I still weighed the pros and cons of staying with Brian, a man who I hadn’t seen in years and who, the student-teacher relationship aside, I knew next to nothing about. Was Brian a serial killer? Was he a sex freak with a thing for furries and leather? Was Brian being put up by my parents to kill me?

And then, on the Monday before Halloween, I made my decision. And it wasn’t a pretty one.

I was in the food court at Eaton Centre, having some lunch. I still had plenty of cash on hand, even though I didn’t disclose this to my roommates. I ate from Harvey’s, which is kind of like Burger King, only with poutine. I just had a cheeseburger, fries, and a Diet Coke. It was a rather pleasant time. The Christmas decorations in the mall were beginning to sprout up, even though Halloween was five days away.

As I tucked into my fries, I heard a very shrill voice twenty feet away say the following words: “OH MY GOD, IT’S THAT GUY!”

I recognized the voice right away. It was Canada’s Favorite Christian herself, Sissy Vandenbroucke, a tormentor of the highest class possible. In fact, she was the worst kind: the one who used her faith to belittle others. She had bullied me in elementary school, and had never seen justice. The very thought of her made my skin crawl. Being around her was like being around the Predator of 1980s lore. No, scratch that. The vagina-faced Predator that stalked Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jesse Ventura, and Carl Weathers would have made a lovely guest for tea compared to Sister Christian herself.

I quickly finished my meal and bussed my tray next to the trash can, avoiding her. I could feel her stalk me. It was as if I was Monica Seles and she was that crazy German guy who had a hard-on for Steffi Graf. And then, the bitch stabbed me. Well, “stabbed” is a rather extreme word. I felt her Lee Press-On nail jab into my shoulder. I turned around, and there she was… a meter and a half tall, with chestnut brown hair, chestnut brown eyes, and wearing a pantsuit like she was Hillary fucking Clinton.

“Graziano Buonfiglio!” she mockingly cheered. “How lovely to see you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I groaned.

“Why the cold shoulder?”

“Why did you harass me in school?”

Sissy feigned being taken aback. I could smell her shit from ten miles above the earth. “Are you still on that?” she asked. “It’s been almost 20 years. Let it go.”

“You’re still the bitch from hell that I remember,” I snapped.

She did not directly respond to that. “A little bird told me that you’re now a homeless bum,” she said.

“Would this bird happen to be Harlot?” I knew that she was a close friend of Charlotte’s, even though they never went to school together and Charlotte hadn’t stepped foot inside a church since she was 18.

“If you’re talking about Charlotte, then yes.”

I turned around and walked out of the dining area. Sissy’s heels clacked and clanged behind me.

“Just look at yourself, running away from the truth!” she hollered. “I was so right to make your life hell all those years ago. You’re nothing but a contemptuable, morally-bereft, psycho-sexual faggot who has no respect for family and God!”

I tuned her out to the best of my ability as I walked out of Eaton Centre, and crossed Dundas Square. And still, she walked behind me, screaming and hollering as if she was in her mega-church preaching the hypocritical bullshit that she and her ilk preach 24/7, 365. I tried to shake her, but she continued to force the issue.

Within one block of Seaton House, she was still at it. She even threw in a couple of Bible verses as she tried to read me the riot act. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. On a dime, I turned around and screamed, “BITCH, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

This shut her up real good. She froze on the corner.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than to follow me?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you be poisoning the minds of your flock at that supermarket you call a mega-church? Shouldn’t you be banging the menfolk of your congregation, Reverend Hot-Pants?”

Sissy stood there for a few moments, and then she slapped me. Hard. The hardest slap of my life. I fell onto the ground. She stood over me, like she was a vulture and I was a carcass that she had designs on picking clean.

I don’t know what came over me, but then, I stood up and lunged at her. We brawled in the street. Soon, passers-by tried to break up the fight and people from Seaton House, clients and staff alike, joined in. I think the fight took ten minutes to break up.

When the dust settled, I had scratches on my face and sore muscles. Sissy, ditto. She cleaned herself off and said, “I have a service to prepare for!” She stormed off towards downtown.

I knew that this would probably get me kicked out of Seaton House. I didn’t care. I had had enough. I decided to leave the place. I could not handle life in a shelter if this was one of the consequences – people mocking you and making your life hell. That afternoon, I bid goodbye to my roommates, collected my things, fetched my cat Britney (who was in good condition), and checked out of the shelter. I got into my car for the first time in weeks, and I drove away.

Somewhere in Scarborough, I stopped by a Shoppers Drug Mart and bought a first-aid kit. After patching myself up, I sat in the driver’s seat, with Britney resting on my lap. I cried for the first time in weeks, and it was a torrent of tears. I sobbed so hard that my cuts hurt even harder. When I stopped, I took out Brian’s card and dialed.

“Hello, this is Brian Gutensohn.”

“Brian? This is Graziano,” I said, “I was wondering… does your offer still stand?”

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“I checked out of Seaton House. It got too tough for me. I’m in Scarborough right now.”

“Do you have my address?”

I looked at the card. 600 Queens Quay West. “Yeah.”

“Graziano, I’m grading mid-terms right now. Ummm… I’ll be home around 9PM. Can you come by around that time?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks. Graziano?”

“Huh?”

“It’s going to be okay, buddy.”

I said goodbye and hung up. Britney sat up and nuzzled my face. Though my face was sore, Britney’s nuzzling made it feel better.

Apologies, again. December 16, 2009

Hey, everyone. I’ve been busy with school and finals, the latter taking place this week. I have not forgotten my blog novel, and as soon as finals are over and done with, I will continue working on this. Please keep in touch. Thanks.

09. Thanksgiving November 20, 2009

Monday morning came, and I had completed my first good night’s sleep in a long time. I had forgotten what it was like to go a whole night without crying or tossing and turning. Meanwhile, my roommates had been up all night and were still wired. I hoped that they weren’t on drugs. It turned out that they weren’t. They had simply shot the breeze the whole night long, exchanging Thanksgiving stories. Breakfast wasn’t a big to-do; just some cereal and pastries and juice.

Thanksgiving dinner was scheduled around 2PM, so I killed some time by walking around, getting to know some of the people. Many of them were surprised to see someone like me. I was surprised that many of them weren’t the stereotype of homeless people. They were just ordinary people who got caught up in extraordinary things. They didn’t set out to be homeless; it just happened.

In all truth, I didn’t know how to react. Many of them had gone through worser things than I had. One guy had served Canada in Afghanistan, and had nothing really to show for it. Another hadn’t lived in a proper house since he was a little boy, and Seaton House was his sixth shelter in as many years. Yet another had been on the streets his whole life, and he knew nothing different. I felt bad, actually. I felt like I couldn’t compete with a war veteran and two guys who spent their lives without stability.

2PM came, and we were all in the dining room. Eight volunteers had come to hand out Thanksgiving dinner, and it looked delicious. They had turkey, of course, and it looked perfectly cooked. They also had tofurkey for those who loved Thanksgiving but hated killing animals. I had tofurkey once. It was okay. And, of course, there was the cavalcade of sides: cranberry sauce (and REAL cranberry sauce at that; the canned variety is IMHO anathema), gravy, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, etc.

Before we got to eat, the shelter supervisor, a plus-size, red-headed lady named Debbie, led us all in a non-denominational Thanksgiving prayer. And then, we all lined up, paper plates and sporks at the ready. One by one, everyone got a healthy serving of turkey (or tofurkey) with whatever sides they wanted.

I was in the back of the line and waited about 10 minutes before I even came close to the buffet. A woman with gray hair, who could have been Dame Judi Dench’s body double, greeted me.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” she said.

I nodded. “Thanks.”

“Are you a dark-meat or white-meat person?”

“White.”

Dame Judi’s Doppelgängerin gingerly placed a few slices of breast on my plate. My plate weighed more than those pieces. I don’t know what was up with that. “There you go,” she said. “Gravy?”

I nodded again and she nearly drowned the turkey in gravy. “Stuffing?”

“What do you have?”

“Sausage… chestnut… traditional…” She looked to her left. Already, the sausage stuffing had been wiped out. “Brian!” she called. “We’re out of sausage stuffing!”

“It’s coming!” I heard a familiar voice yell those words. And then, I saw him: Brian Gutensohn, my creative writing teacher from the University of Toronto. A few inches higher than me, at least forty pounds thinner, and at least a decade and a half older. He was graying at the temples, but other than that, his hair had retained its chestnut hue. He took one glance in my direction, and I  darted out of the dining room. I flew up the stairs to my room, landed on my bed, and sobbed. I couldn’t bear to have Brian see one of his students at the lowest rung of society. I didn’t want to think of him as a failure of a teacher.

Ten minutes later, Debbie knocked on the open door. “You okay, dear?” she asked.

I didn’t look at her, but I said, “No.”

“Do you know Brian?”

“He was my creative writing professor.”

“OH.” Debbie walked to my bed and sat on the edge. “Sweetie, come on down.”

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Well, you don’t have to. But your Thanksgiving dinner is getting cold, and I’ll be damned if even one of my charges doesn’t eat today.”

Suddenly, I could hear Brian’s voice: “Hi, Graziano.” I got up, and there was Brian, in the doorway. He didn’t look upset.

“I’ll… keep a plate warm for you,” Debbie said as she got up and left. It was just me and my former teacher. I never even spent time in his office when I was at university, and years later, there we were.

“Can we go for a walk?” Brian asked.

I nodded and we walked out of the room. We began to roam the premises.

“Shouldn’t you be… anywhere but here?” Brian asked.

“I don’t know if I should be on this planet.”

“Why?”

I couldn’t come up with a decent answer and simply said, “Just… ’cause.”

“What is this? America’s Next Top Model?”

We entered the stairwell and sat down on the landing. “My family kicked me out on Wednesday. I made a scene at my bitch cousin’s 18th birthday. I didn’t want to be there, on account that it was MY birthday. According to them, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry to have experienced it.”

“I didn’t have any choice but to come here. After I got kicked out, I spent the next two days living in my car. I had to sleep in places that didn’t have police coming at all hours of the night.”

Brian wrapped his arm around me. It was a secure wrap, but a comforting one. I laid my head on his shoulder. “Don’t you have anyone else to crash with?”

I shook my head. “No one in my address book answered my calls. I don’t have any relatives in the area who will take me in. And my grandparents are dead… my brother Ryan is somewhere outside the country… and I miss Evan.”

“I know that this is five years late, but I’m sorry that he died.”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t know what I can do to help.”

“You know what you can do?” I felt myself suddenly boiling with rage. “You can try to revive Evan. He’s dissolved in Lake Ontario, but if they can extract DNA from a dinosaur, you can find a speck of him. While you’re at it, bring back my grandparents. They’ve got top-notch scientists at the university; maybe they can bring them back. Unless you know how to reverse 28 fucking years of lies, abuse, and self-doubt, then THERE ISN’T ANYTHING THAT YOU CAN DO TO HELP!!!”

“Hey!” Brian turned me towards him. “You’re right. I can’t be a miracle worker. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t help you somehow. You’re not beyond help, you know.”

I collapsed into his arms, crying. Brian held me close and hugged me. “You have a lot of great qualities,” he continued. “You’re passionate, you’re spunky, and you’re smart. Right now, you shouldn’t be in this predicament. Why don’t you come and stay with me?”

“I don’t want to impose,” I blubbered into his sweater.

“Do you need some time to think?”

I let go of Brian and nodded. He produced a card from his pocket, which had his address: 600 Queens Quay West. I was familiar with that area: I had spread Evan’s ashes nearby five years earlier.

“When you’re ready, call me.”

“Thanks, Brian.” I put the card in my pocket.

“Can we please get some Thanksgiving dinner?” he asked.

I nodded and we walked back down to the dining room. I was still shaken, but my encounter with Brian had not been the disaster that I feared it would be. Sure enough, Debbie had kept a warm plate of food for me. The turkey was moist and delicious.

08. Pre-Thanksgiving November 6, 2009

They released me from the hospital two days later, on Friday morning. Charlotte begrudgingly picked me up. I say “begrudgingly” because she still had my keys with her. Otherwise, I would have had to take the GO Train back to Brampton. We didn’t say two words to each other on the way back. She yakked on her cell phone in her psuedo-Valley Girl voice and not once looked at me. It was probably the most civilized we had ever been to each other.

She dropped me off at my soon-to-be former home, still chatting up a storm thanks to her endless Whatever minutes. My parents were at work, so there was only one living thing there: my cat, Britney. I had adopted her weeks after moving back in, and she was my one true ally at home, never mind that she was not human.

Britney crawled out of the bushes and nuzzled and purred at my legs. I could tell that she knew what was going to go down. I picked her up and brought her inside the house. Ten flattened cardboard boxes greeted me at the foyer, along with some duct tape and scissors. I hadn’t even figured out where I wanted to go.

I spent the next three hours packing stuff and loading my car. I wasn’t going to bring the furniture along – those had been in the room before I moved in. The process was made easier thanks to my shitload of Space Bags. I personally think that Space Bags are the most ingenious invention of recent times, even more so than the iPod and the Roomba. Britney watched as I stuffed, sealed, and sucked the air out of Space Bag after Space Bag. She was perplexed and mesmerized at these glorified Ziploc bags. She had no idea what they were, but this didn’t stop her from having a ball. This is a cat who spent five hours gazing at a Jeff Stryker dildo that I bought in San Francisco and had put on my dresser as a conversation piece.

I fit everything that I had into five boxes. I put several changes of clothes in a duffel bag, to get me through at least the first week. After I finished loading, I went into the kitchen and grabbed all the food that I had purchased, perishable and all, from the fridge and cupboards. Not that my parents even noticed what I had bought. In fact, while my mother drank like a fish, she ate like a supermodel, which is to say almost nothing. I filled two large thermal food bags with the stuff and called it a day.

I noticed Britney sitting at the front entrance, meowing. I didn’t know what I was going to do with her. It would be strange to lug a cat around the GTA, but I couldn’t leave her. So, I fetched her carrier case from the garage, as well as a bag of cat litter and cans of food, and put her and said things in the car.

I went back inside for one final walk-around. It wasn’t the home that I had grown up in, but it still was where I lived for five years. And yet, it was weird. On one had, I felt sadness. I was sad that I was, in effect, without a proper roof over my head. On the other hand, I felt no attachment to the house whatsoever, no thanks in part to who owned the place.

Compare this house in Brampton to our old one in Toronto. The latter was three stories tall and a few blocks from St. Clair Avenue West, the rich heartland of Corso Italia. It was quite compact, but it was full of warm, rich colors – brown, red, gold, amber. The former, on the other hand, was vast and grandiose, but lacking in color and character. There were houses in the neighborhood that looked similar, but still had individual charm and warmth. One house had flowers growing in the yard year-round, even in the dead of winter. One house had a driveway paved in the style of the Canadian flag. My parents’ house didn’t even have a flagpole. This house was an anomaly; an anomaly that in all truth, I was happy to be rid of.

I walked out of the house for the last time, relieved and yet scared. The clouds were darkening, and I could feel the first drops of rain on my face. In my car, I pulled out of the driveway, took one last look at the neighborhood, and sped off.

I drove into Toronto and my first stop was Public Storage. I didn’t tell anyone there that I was homeless. I could have simply decided to live in my storage closet for the foreseeable future, but    it was better not to. It was housing some of my grandparents’ things as well as a few of my own. Until I got a bigger place of my own, that was where they were going to stay. I put the five boxes in the closet and left.

I didn’t have the heart to tell ANYONE about my predicament, so I decided to pretend that life was going on as usual. Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, I go to the GoodLife Fitness club at Eaton Centre. I went there as usual, and worked out for three hours, followed by a quick bite to eat. Britney was okay in the car. When I got back, she was still sleeping in her cage.
For an hour afterwards, I drove around, finding a good place to camp out for the night. It was cold and wet, but I just didn’t feel right checking into a homeless shelter, especially one that didn’t allow cats. No matter what, Britney and I were a team, and I would be damned if we had to split up. Eventually, I found myself at Scarborough Bluffs, on the eastern edge of town. I didn’t get one wink of sleep the whole night through. In the back seat of my car, I laid awake under a Toronto Maple Leafs blanket that Ryan bought me before he left home. I stared through the window at the stars. My life had been reduced to this: sleeping in a PT Cruiser on the edge of town.

When morning came, I immediately peeled out of the parking lot and drove around Scarborough, aimlessly. I ended up at the McCowan RT station. With Britney and her carrier in tow, I got out and began a day-long excursion on the TTC subway. McCowan, Scarborough Centre, Midland, Ellesmere, Lawrence East, get off at Kennedy, change trains at Kennedy, Warden, Victoria Park, Main Street, Woodbine, Coxwell, Greenwood, Donlands, Pape, Chester, Broadview, Castle Frank, Sherbourne, get off at Bloor-Yonge, change trains at Bloor-Yonge, Wellesley, College, get off at Dundas, Saturday workout at Goodlife Fitness at Eaton Centre, return to Dundas, Queen, King, Union, St. Andrew, Osgoode, St. Patrick, Queen’s Park (near the University of Toronto), Museum, St. George, Spadina, Dupont, St. Clair West (near my old neighborhood), Eglinton West, Glencairn, get off at Lawrence West, walk around Lawrence Square, buy dinner at Fortino’s, return to Lawrence West, and do the whole route again in reverse. Britney and I arrived back at McCowan just before 8:30 that night. I drove away, snacking on fried chicken and potato wedges, wondering what my next step was. Once again, I found a park out of the way and spent the night there, in my car, with no sleep.

Sunday morning came, and I had gotten tired of living in my car. I started calling all the people in my black book who would bother giving me the time of day. I left message after message. It was Thanksgiving Eve, and I was doomed to spend the holiday at home. I finally gave in and went in search of a homeless shelter.

At an Internet cafe, I looked up resources for homeless people. After a while, I settled on Seaton House, on George Street. I drove in and got myself admitted. They were shocked that someone like me, appearance-wise, would even be in this predicament. I was shocked, too. Still, the staff were very friendly and supportive. I spent the rest of the day doing an intake interview, and when it was all over, I finally had a place to stay. Britney wasn’t allowed into the rooms, but the staff put her in a safe room so that she would not get in anyone’s way. That night, I slept in the same room as two certifiable schizophrenics and a transgendered prostitute. It was a massive change of pace, but it was at least a comfortable bed in a comfortable, if somewhat odd, atmosphere.

07. Birthday Celebration, Part 03 October 27, 2009

Toronto General Hospital

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Wednesday, 7th October, 2009

When I woke up, all I saw was white. And I was feeling groggy and tired. Had I died? I had no idea where I was.

“Where am I?” I groaned.

“Heaven”, a female voice said.

I lifted my head up, and then I realized I was in the hospital. A tall nurse with a big afro stood at my bed, clutching a clipboard.

“Since when did heaven become a hospital room?” I asked.

“While you were sleeping.”

I glared at her. I was not in the mood for jokes.

“I’m just humoring you,” she said, patting my arm. “You could use a laugh.”

I lay back on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. “The last thing I remember,” I said, trying to fit a pillow in the small of my back, “was me falling into that sand trap. And then, nothing.”

The nurse, whose last name was Lightbourne, wrote something down on her clipboard. “So, what number is this?”

“Huh?”

“On top of hypothermia, we found excessive amounts of Tylenol in your system. How many times have you tried to kill yourself?”

The pillow finally fit perfectly. “Too many to count. How did you guess?”

“I could tell. You have the look. I’ve seen it too many times – the look of a failed suicide victim.”

I nodded knowingly.

“And, I have a condensed medical history,” she added. “You know, one more failed suicide attempt, and you get a toaster oven.”

I chuckled. It was inappropriate, but I needed it. Nurse Lightbourne smiled. “There’s a good boy,” she said.

“I feel like such an idiot. I tried to kill myself because I didn’t want to go to my niece’s cotillion.”

“That’s unusual.”

“It was also my birthday. I was conscripted to attend by my parents. The whole party reeked of nouveau riche bullshit.”

Nurse Lightbourne walked over to the monitor to check my vital signs. “Did you have plans?” she asked.

“I had dinner reservations at North 44.”

“I got engaged there. You’d have loved it.”

“I even had my order planned out beforehand. For the appetizer, pink snapper tartare with ruby grapefruit and avocado. For the main course, grilled U.S.D.A. rib-eye. And for dessert, a tart of chocolate peanut butter marquise, burnt caramel, crisp feuilletine, lillokai parfait, and crisp meringue.” My stomach growled, deprived of that sumptuous meal.

“You’re making me horny,” Nurse Lightbourne said, out of the blue.

“Don’t you mean hungry?”

“What’s the difference? Anyway, the doctor will be in to check on you later. I’m sorry that you missed out. It sounds delicious.”

All of a sudden, my parents and Charlotte entered the room. They were PISSED OFF.

“Nurse,” my father said, “please excuse us.”

“Are you family?”

“No, they’re my parents and sister,” I chimed in. “And I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

Nurse Lightbourne glared at him. “I hope you’re happy,” she said. “You robbed him of lillokai parfait.” She stormed out.

I had no intention of being in the same room as the posse that had come in. But I couldn’t get out. I had tubes in my arm and I was still in some pain, though the drugs diluted it a scooch. Still, I wanted to make a run for it.

Charlotte sat down next to the window, my mother sat to my immediate left, and my father was at the foot of the bed. They had me trapped.

“So, this is where you’ve ended up,” my father said.

“Why did you have to make such a scene last night?” my mother asked. “Why did you have to embarrass us like you did?”

“Would you have preferred that I embarrassed you some other way?” I retorted.

“This is not funny, ASSIANO,” Charlotte snapped.

“Listen, bitch, it’s GRAZIANO!” I snapped back. It took a lot out of me, and my body hurt. Charlotte looked steamed. Her head looked like it would explode into smithereens. “Anyway,” I continued, “I could have been painting the town red last night, instead of enduring three and a half hours of nouveau riche bullshit.”

“Nouveau riche bullshit?” my mother screamed. “That was your cousin’s coming-out party!”

“As what? A stupid, spoiled whore? She didn’t need a party for that.”

My father stomped on the ground. “How can you be so proud of yourself, young man?” he roared.

“How could I not?”

“Damnit! It was NOT your place to do that!” Charlotte stood up in her chair like a lawn dart.

That was rich, coming from someone who thought it her place to sick her boyfriends on me.

“I only said what I was feeling,” I said. “It wasn’t as if I pissed on the 18th hole.”

My mother closed in on me. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” she said. The stench of liquor came from her mouth, of course. “You think that you can get through life as some smart-aleck faggot. The world doesn’t work like that!”

“Is that a forty I smell on your breath?” Having been around a drunk for a mother, I’ve gotten used, against my better judgment, to the smells of various wines and spirits. She didn’t respond and retreated back to her seat.

“You know what Ashley said to me last night?” Charlotte paced around the room, glaring at me. “She said that if you hate this family so much, why don’t we just excommunicate you?”

“Excommunication!” my father exclaimed. “A grand idea, one of the best in all of Christianity.”

“For your information,” my mother said, rather proudly, “it’s not a forty. It’s Colt 45!”

“They make them in 40-ounce bottles,” I replied.

“OH SHUT THE FUCK UP! JUST SHUT YOUR GODDAMN FAGGOT TRAP, YOU GODDAMN KNOW-IT-ALL FAGGOT!” My mother could not take it anymore. Frankly, this was an unimpressive display. I had seen her act a whole lot worse. She centered herself and sat down again.

My father walked over to my right and shook his head. “Do you see what you put your mother through? Me? Charlotte? The whole family?” he asked. “What would your grandparents say?”

I looked at him and said, “Good on you. That’s what they would say. They and Ryan were the only people in this family who had my back. They made me feel like I was worth something. They made me feel like a human being. And they’re gone. Ryan moved away and my grandparents are dead.”

“BOO FUCKING HOO!” My father’s lividness level rose. “They’re gone for good. Get over it.”

I was horrified. “I can’t. I miss them, and Evan too. Sometimes I wonder if God hates me–”

“You’re damn right he does,” Charlotte interjected.

“FUCK YOU, YOU GODDAMN HARLOT!” I screamed. “FUCK. YOU.”

Charlotte fell back into her chair. That scared the shit out of her.

“As I was saying,” I continued in a calmer voice, “sometimes I wonder if God hates me. The people who I loved more than anything in the world are gone. Is it fate? Is it my punishment?”

“Save that shit for when you die,” my father said. “Hopefully, that will be soon. Now, you listen to me, young man. As soon as you get released from the hospital, I want you to get all your belongings and get the hell out of my house. As of right now, you ARE excommunicated from the family. You are not to contact us in any way, shape, or form. I don’t even want to know where you are. I hope that you never find a home. I hope that you die and rot in the streets. I hope that they will bury you in a pauper’s grave. And I hope that some dog will shit on it.” He turned to Charlotte and my mother. “Come on; let’s go home.”

They followed him out. I could hear my mother ask, “Why do they call it Colt 45 and sell it in 40-ounce bottles?”

“Because your son is an asshole, that’s why,” Charlotte replied.

I heard their steps in the hallway fade. It was at that moment that I realized, I was by all accounts homeless. I began to cry; this time my tears and cries were softer, but no less profound. I had just turned 28, and I had nowhere to go. To make matters worse, Thanksgiving was a few days away. Home no longer existed. I finished crying, and thought, “Dear God, what am I going to do?”

I sat up in my bed for hours, thinking about the next step. I knew this much: cliche notwithstanding, my life was never going to be the same.

ANNOUNCEMENT: THIS IS A BLOG NOVEL, NOT BASED ON A TRUE STORY! October 24, 2009

I just want to tell anyone who visits this blog for the first time that this blog novel is a work of fiction. The events mentioned in this book did not, as a whole, happen to me in my life. I admit that I have had some bad stuff happen to me, but not to the extent that Graziano Buonfiglio endures in this book. Some of the events mentioned are events that happened to me, but not the murdered grandparents bit. I just want to explain that. I do hope that you continue to follow the story. Thank you.

06. Birthday Celebration, Part 02 October 23, 2009

Glen Abbey Golf Course
Clubhouse
Oakville, Ontario, Canada
6th October, 2009

I had to ride the entire route to the Glen Abbey Golf Course in my parents’ car. My mother was in shotgun, putting on makeup. She looked like a drag queen. No, scratch that. Drag queens would never look that messed up. My father had the radio on. Big band. He loved Glenn Miller and his ilk. No Brian Setzer Orchestra for him. Charlotte was on her cell phone, talking up a storm. She has a prominent Canadian accent, but she can say “Oh my God!” and “Whatever!” and whatever affectations with a pin-point American accent, and this is a woman who had never even been to California.

I looked out the window and saw everything pass by: trees, houses, buildings, more trees, more houses, more buildings. I hated it. Life was passing me by. I was stuck at home, no prospects of ever breaking out, enduring abuse on a near-constant basis, and on this night, I couldn’t even celebrate my birthday.

The trip, all told, took a half-hour. It was raining. It would have been to everyone’s advantage had they held it on a weekend. But technically, it wouldn’t have counted because Ashley would have been 17 still. And Uncle Michael could afford to hold it on a relatively inconvenient night. He had the money and influence. So, when we pulled into the clubhouse parking lot, it was next to filled to capacity. People were not going to let a little rain dampen Ashley’s big night.

We got out, and already I could tell it was going to be a long and boring and ridiculous night. Next to the entrance, Ashley’s recent homecoming queen photo was present at both sides. And yet she looked like Kristen French, one of the victims of Karla Homolka and Paul Bernardo from back in the day. I know that it sounds crazy, but I would have rather spent the night with Karla and Paul than attended this shit. Of course, if Paul attacked me, I would have whooped his Scarborough Rapist ass and thrown it into Lake Ontario, but still.

I maintained a distance of 10 feet behind the rest of my family as we made it across the wet, cramped parking lot. And then they came towards us: Uncle Michael and Aunt Denise. They looked considerably better than my parents, but even then they still looked ridiculous. Uncle Michael had a garish purple suit on. All he needed was a fedora, an ermine coat, and a walking stick and he could bitch-slap you if you didn’t make any money. Aunt Denise, whose facial expressions screamed “CUNT”, had on a Gucci dress. I never knew much about Aunt Denise, other than the fact that she openly despised me and worked for the federal government… giving blowjobs to Conservative MPs, I imagine. No. I would credit them with more taste.

“Joe, Nadine, Charlotte,” he said, “great to see you.” He ignored me, that bastard. I wasn’t surprised, though.

“Is the birthday girl here?” my father asked.

“She’s on her way with her friends,” Aunt Denise replied. “In a stretch limo.” Jesus Christ on a wheel, the bitch was coming in a fucking limousine. “So, Charlotte, how’s little Savannah?”

“My boyfriend’s mom is babysitting her. She’s fine.” I never was allowed to touch Savannah, not even give her a hug. Charlotte had been rearing her to hate me since birth, just like Michael and Denise Buonfiglio had been rearing Ashley.

“Hey, you!” Uncle Michael yelled at me. I bristled.

“Don’t ‘hey, you’ me!” I snapped back. Like Charlotte, Uncle Michael never addressed me by my first name. It was bad enough that my bitch sister called me Assiano, but my uncle calling me “Hey, you” was especially worse.

“Shouldn’t you be out doing steroids?” Aunt Denise retorted.

“Shouldn’t you be screwing Stephen Harper?” I asked.

She had no response. She looked like someone had slapped the taste out of her mouth. “I’m going to check on the hors d’oeuvres,” she said in a low voice and scurried back inside. It was for me a minor victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“Any more bons mots, you smart-ass fag?” Barney the Guido Dinosaur snapped.

“It’s my fucking 28th birthday!” I roared. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Tough. You are here. And you’re going to behave yourself or this will be your last birthday.” He motioned for my family to come inside. I stayed outside, away from the soft shower outside. I sat on a bench and watched people file in, all friends and family of Ashley. I took out a stress ball from my pocket and squeezed it for ten minutes.

When those ten minutes were up, I got inside the clubhouse and slowly made my way towards the banquet hall. Upon entering said hall, I was immediately horrified. If you thought that the creepy homecoming photos at the clubhouse entrance were too much, you hadn’t seen anything yet. It was a virtual celebration of all things Ashley: blown-up pictures of her were on tasteful, silver-painted stands throughout the hall; Ashley at birth, Ashley’s first crawl, Ashley’s first Communion, pictures of her winning awards, pictures of her scoring the winning goal in a championship soccer match… ugh. Every banquet table had a bouquet of her favorite flowers: daisy and periwinkle. Each bouquet had a card outlining the meaning of said flowers: daisy representing the Virgin Mary, and periwinkle as the Virgin Flower. Even the color scheme of the garish crepe-paper decorations reeked of Ashley: virgin white. Virgin, virgin, virgin… the irony was that on this night, Ashley was omnipresent to fame-whore levels, and she wasn’t even in the building at that point.

My parents and Charlotte sat in the far end of the hall, near where Ashley and her coterie of cohorts would hold court. Ashley’s seat was less of a seat and more of a throne. A virgin white throne, of course. Aunt Denise and Uncle Michael were there as well. They were chatting up a storm and drinking.

I stomached as much as I could of the atmosphere and walked towards the buffet table. I filled a paper plate with manicotti, some slices of beef with gravy, and mixed vegetables. If I couldn’t have my dinner at North 44, I would be damned if I didn’t at least have some grub here.

I sat down at the extreme opposite end of the hall, close to the exit. For the next 40 minutes, I saw people drinking, eating, and looking at the various photos. I swear, they could have had pictures of Ashley buck naked riding Lady Gaga’s disco stick on a burning bed of coals and no one would have given a fuck. And yet, none of the people even noticed me. Not the cousins and aunts and uncles that I knew, not even the people that I didn’t know at all. Even in the events when I had to go to the washroom, no one looked my way. I didn’t want them to all throw themselves at me, but it would  have been nice if someone had acknowledged me.

And then, the lights dimmed. And then, the booming voice of Uncle Michael spread across the hall:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the friends of Ashley Buonfiglio!”

Her 18 friends were paired into nine boy-girl pairs, and they came out in 1-minute intervals. They all came from the same high school: Our Lady of I Don’t Give a Shit. And I didn’t give a shit about this shit. The boys were not that cute, in my opinion, but I could see why girls their age thought of them as cute. They looked like the road company for The Zac Efron/Robert Pattinson Experience. And the girls had curly hair and billowy gowns, as if this was Toddlers & Tiaras. They came out to Pachelbel’s Canon. That was so classless.

“Ladies and gentlemen, escorted by her boyfriend, Marvin Tagliaferro, please welcome my baby girl, on her 18th birthday, Miss Ashley Mercedes Buonfiglio!”

And then, the DJ played Britney Spears’ “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman” as the over-coiffed, over-made-up woman of the night, Ashley Buonfiglio, and her Canadian Army boyfriend (he was in full regalia) sashayed in with precise, perhaps terrifying, precision. Had I been at the booth, I would have said “Fuck it” and played “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks, because I’m classy. The procession sickened me, especially when they began some formal ballroom dancing bullshit. It looked classy, but in all truth, it was trashy.
While the buffet food was delicious (the one thing that they got right), the night continued to worsen. Uncle Michael made a speech, Aunt Nadine made a speech, the Monsignor of the Church of Our Lady of I Don’t Give a Shit said an invocation, and there even was a slick DVD presentation of Ashley’s greatest moments. It was more pornographic than anything Jenna Jameson could have mustered. It couldn’t have been more pornographic if the backing track had been “Bow chicka wow wow”.

Around 9:30 that night, Ashley addressed the audience for the first time. This is how her speech went:

“Thank you, everyone. Tonight is a special night, because it marks my passage from a little girl into a woman.”

Didn’t she lose her virginity in the back of her boyfriend’s truck?

“I know that the weather has been abysmal…”

No, bitch, this celebration is abysmal.

“… but not even the biggest rainstorm in Canada could have made this night a disaster. I feel so humbled and honored to have you all here, celebrating my 18th birthday.”

Bullshit.

“I look back on my life, and I realize how much I have accomplished in the world. I also realize how much I still have left in me. I realize how lucky I am to have parents who love me, who cherish me, and who are there for me when I am down.”

Fuck that shit. My mother and father never acted like a mother and father.

“Tonight, I would like to thank the Glen Abbey Golf Course for allowing us to celebrate my birthday on the course of champions…”

Because you need to mention the joint if you want to have another shindig here again.

“… thanks to my family…”

I had enough. I got up out of my seat and headed for the exit, and then the following words flew out of Ashley’s mouth:

“EXCUSE ME! NO ONE WALKS OUT ON MY SPEECH!”

I turned around, and for the first time that whole night, at least one pair of eyes were on me. Everyone inside the hall glared at me. I could feel their icy stares piercing at me, like I was a pin cushion. Even from 30 feet away, I could tell that my father, my mother, Charlotte, CUNT Face and Barney the Guido Dinosaur were pissed. I hadn’t done anything but get up and head for the exit.

That was all I needed. I walked, nay, stomped a straight line toward Ashley. STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. The rest of the audience could feel it. Something was about to go down.

I looked at Ashley with a sneer. She dropped the microphone, and I caught it before it hit the polished wood floor. “I’ll be done in a minute,” I growled.

Ashley stepped back, as did everyone in her posse, even her military boyfriend Marvin. I took the microphone and began MY speech:

“My name is Graziano Buonfiglio. I am Ashley’s cousin, and the alleged black sheep of this family, even though I have a college degree and never had a conviction. Okay, I had a few run-ins with the law, but that’s neither here nor there. Tonight is not only a big night in this family, but it’s also my 28th birthday. Yeah. Tonight, I could have been at a restaurant in midtown Toronto, dining on the best that the GTA has to offer. I could have gone out and had someone fuck my brains out. I could have been on top of the world. But NO. I had to be conscripted into joining the rest of the Buonfiglio clan and forfeit the numerical elegance of celebrating my birthday on my birth date. In my whole life, I never had anything like this. My parents never threw me a party or gave me presents. My grandparents tried, but they couldn’t, because my parents would intercept them and take what rightly should have been mine. Frankly, this is a fucking travesty. For the first time in my life, I feel ashamed to be a part of this family.”

No one applauded. Not even one clap. Just dead silence. I handed the microphone back to Ashley, and I said, “Happy Birthday, you fucking whore.”

I promptly stormed out of the hall. I heard Ashley break down into tears. I heard whispers from the other party guests. I even heard the Monsignor of OLOIDGAS say a prayer or two. But I didn’t turn my back for one second. I headed out of the clubhouse and into the rain. I knew that Charlotte still had my keys, but I didn’t care at that point.

I marched onto the golf course, as the rain came down. I heard thunder rumbling in the skies. I was getting wet with every step. I didn’t care. And then I tripped and fell, face first… in a deep sand bunker. It felt like crashing onto the wet part of the beach: technically soft but still hard enough that it hurt like a bitch.

I began to cry into the sand. Of course, the sand couldn’t tell the difference between rain and my tears. I sobbed for five minutes. The emotions began coming out again. I hated my family, I hated my place in the world, I hated the whole world.

My tears temporarily subsided. I took out a bottle of Tylenol and opened it. Ten capsules fell into my hand and softened with the rain. I thrust them into my mouth, swallowed, and cried again. My cries became howls. My howls became screams. The screams seemed to be in concert with the rain and the thunder. And then, I blacked out.