Brampton, Ontario, Canada
6th October, 2009
When it comes to domestic birthday parties, I have historically gotten the short end of the stick. I never got a birthday cake. I never got birthday presents. No “Happy Birthday” for me. No parties. My parents would say to people that they couldn’t afford to give me even the most rudimentary of celebrations, because they didn’t have enough money. Yet we never went hungry or became destitute. Meanwhile, Charlotte and Ryan got the best of everything, and especially on their birthdays.
When Ryan turned 18, my parents had his birthday party at their summer getaway near Niagara Falls, and they spared no expense to celebrate his coming of age. They even had Celine Dion send a video message, and Ryan wasn’t even that big of a Celine Dion fan. And yet I have every album that she did, even the French-language ones. When Charlotte hit the big 18, she had a cotillion, marking her entry into society. Long gowns, gloves, a buffet dinner… it was a feast fit for a spoiled, bratty whore.
And how did I celebrate my 18th birthday? I spent it holed up in my room, eating Haagen-Dazs and crying and listening to Tears for Fears’ Songs from the Big Chair album. To this day, I still lose it when I hear the opening raindrop-like notes to “Everybody Wants to Rule the World”. And Haagen-Dazs is still my friend, my bodybuilder build notwithstanding. I never even got a birthday present from my grandparents. Not that they didn’t give me any, but they were always intercepted by my parents. They even snapped up cash gifts and spent them on even more booze and shit.
The only times that I had a birthday party were from 2000 to 2003. My dorm advisor, a friendly if physically intimidating bull dyke from Manitoba named Marie-Lourdes, took me out for a night of bowling with her queer friends. I can’t bowl for shit, but it was one of the most fun times in my life. 2001 was the first time that I had a proper birthday cake. I bought it myself: a Sacher torte, the ones made of chocolate and apricot jam whose master recipe is kept under lock and key in Austria. I partied alone in my dorm room, and I did that on my own accord. Even though 9/11 had happened and everyone was reaching out to each other, I refused to buy into the hysteria and the aftermath. I still believe that 9/11 was less of a terrorist attack and more of a carefully orchestrated opportunity for Dubya to begin his reign of terror. 3,000 people died that day, and for absolutely nothing, IMHO.
Evan took me out on my birthday in 2002 and 2003. The first one was atop CN Tower, which in all truth neither of us had been. The food was decent, but being with Evan and having a gorgeous view of Toronto and Lake Ontario was more than enough. The next year, I had the best birthday of my life. We had dinner at Byzantium, near Church & Wellesley. Dinner was great, but that wasn’t exactly what made the night so special. Back at his apartment, Evan gave me the best present ever: a Teddy Ruxpin that he got off eBay. It was a little worn out, but it was still a Teddy Ruxpin and worked great. It was ironic that I never got to experience the joy of that little bear when I was a kid and Teddy was in his heyday, yet after so many years, and at an age when stuff like that is collected for nostalgia and kitsch purposes, I could finally enjoy it without feeling guilty. I totally fucked the stuffing out of Evan that night.
Since moving back home, my birthdays went unnoticed as usual, with the exception that they were some of the very few days that I not once got assaulted or berated. And as ever, my parents splurged on other people’s birthdays. Even my niece Savannah got the royal treatment. I was left to make my own birthday celebrations, this time with neither Evan nor my grandparents in my life. Even if I couldn’t have a party, I always made sure that I got some birthday cake, and it was always something with chocolate. I can’t imagine having anything else on a birthday.
My 28th birthday began like most days, as of late: I woke up around 7 o’clock in the morning. My parents were sound asleep, and wouldn’t be up for some time. They usually would get up around 10, usually nursing a hangover from the previous night. I had some breakfast and rushed off to work. Work, in this case, was the latest in a succession of temporary gigs: a clerical assignment at HSBC in downtown Toronto. I liked the work, but in truth, I’m not really a suit-and-tie business-class guy.
When I came back home, I showered and got dressed. I had reservations that night at North 44, a restaurant in midtown Toronto, if not THE restaurant. I had even planned my menu, right down to the dessert. Everything was going to be so perfect, so wonderful…
And then I went downstairs. I was near the front door when I heard a booming voice from the kitchen:
“WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?!”
I turned around, and I saw my father emerge from the kitchen into the foyer. He, too, was all dressed up. He had a navy blue tie on to go with his ghastly blue suit. Coincidentally, my father was a Conservative. I’m a progressive Liberal. Every time my father wore that blue suit, he looked even more disgusting than before. To put it another way, a pimp in Compton would be hard-pressed to look even that atrocious. Flavor Flav wouldn’t have looked that stupid, and that’s a guy who walks around with Viking horns and a giant clock on a necklace.
“I repeat!” he said. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
I didn’t care to look in his direction. “Tonight’s my birthday,” I muttered. “I have plans.”
“Not tonight, you don’t.”
“What? Have you decided to acknowledge my birthday?”
He laughed for ten seconds, and then: “Hell no.”
“What’s going on?” I sensed that something was up.
My mother came out of the kitchen, holding a glass of wine. She, too, was dolled up for a night on the town. She always made an effort to look good and fashionable, even if she was inebriated. “It’s your cousin Ashley’s 18th birthday,” she said.
I was ten feet away from her, and I could still smell Sauvignon Blanc on her breath. I hated Ashley and her side of the family. Uncle Michael and his wife, Aunt Denise, were rich bitches who were just as fervent in their hatred of me as my parents were. Ashley was 10 years younger than me, and already had an advantaged life in Oakville: a GPA in the top 0.1% of all secondary school students in Canada, offers from every major university in North America, and a bevy of friends and acquaintances who bowed at her feet and kissed her rings as if she were the fucking Pope.
“What does that have to do with me?” I asked my mother.
“We’re all invited to her cotillion at Glen Fiddich.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” she grumbled as she went back into the kitchen.
“Well, I hope that you two have a lovely evening.”
“Not so fast!” my father bellowed. “Your stupid ass is coming with us. The whole family is invited.”
I had no intention of going. “Well, I decline the invite, but you can go along. I’ve nothing for Ashley, and her family has nothing for me.”
“You’re going and that’s final.”
I refused to be cowed. “Why?” I asked, no hint of whining in my voice. “You don’t drag me to other family events. What’s so special about this one?”
“I SAID YOU’RE GOING AND THAT’S THAT!” my father roared.
I glared at him and thrust the front door open. And coming towards me was my whore of a sister, Charlotte. She looked every inch like a glamorous whore. I stormed out and was all set to pass her when she grabbed my lapel and stopped me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she growled.
“Charlotte, he’s coming with us to Ashley’s party,” my father said, now dominating the front entrance.
“Yeah, and he had better not embarrass the fuck out of us!” I could hear my mother cackle like a witch on crack from the kitchen.
Charlotte thrust her hand into my jacket pocket and snatched my car keys. I grabbed her wrists and tried to force her to let go, but she wouldn’t. She put them in her Louis Vuitton knock-off purse and slapped me so hard that it sent me to the ground.
I got up and looked at my parents and Charlotte. They were loving this, seeing me fall on my ass. I realized at that point that I was trapped. Dinner at North 44 would have to be put on hold, perhaps indefinitely.
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