At first, news of my brother’s divorce seemed to have nothing to do with me. He explained over the phone that he was advised by his lawyer to deliver these bad tidings to his wife via text so that there would be a timestamp on his initiating the separation. He’d planned to sneak back to their shared home and collect his stuff while Lauren was tied up teaching classes at the gym. Only, there was an emergency at work, the kind of Bay Street calamity where no one is injured or in immediate danger but everyone is expected to drop everything for the sake of saving whatever money is on the line. So he called me, his recently laid-off brother, to see if I might drive his car from Toronto to Hamilton and grab whatever I could from his house, forgetting that I didn’t know how to drive manual. I was almost off the hook when my boyfriend Matt, who was working from my couch, chimed in, offering to lend me his car instead.
Why my brother chose to settle in Hamilton, I’ll never know. My perilous journey down the Gardiner and harrowing merge onto the QEW proved that the opportunity to own a freestanding house was not worth the maddening hour-long commute, which would have taken double that time in rush hour. And to think he did that every day both ways for a grand total of four hours behind the wheel. That would be twenty hours in the car a week; over a thousand in a year. And to think about how that added up over a lifetime…
It should have been an easy job: case the joint and split. My brother sent me a list of items to grab along with the address of a buddy’s place where I could stash the loot. I threw the requested clothes (mostly designer suits) into a suitcase along with some toiletries. In too went the Swiss watches. I dug up his golf clubs and racquets from the basement. I boxed up his vinyl collection and set that aside as well. The stereo system would be the last of his expensive shit to go by virtue of its weight and unwieldiness. First, I would have to figure out how to free the enormous flat screen from its mount on the living room wall.
It was while I was fiddling with the TV that I became aware of a commotion outside. There was a distinct thwacking sound of a blunt object colliding with metal over and over. A chill went down my spine when I heard the smashing of a window. I crept to the front door, peering through the mail slot to suss out the hubbub. There was my sister-in-law, tire iron in hand, laying waste to my boyfriend’s car. A line of dents traced her path of destruction around the vehicle. The “FUCK YOU” she’d keyed into the hood was an especially nice touch. I didn’t have time to admire the handiwork though. I threw open the door, shouting “Lauren! Lauren! It’s me! That’s my car!” She evidently didn’t hear me. Either the maelstrom of her destruction was too loud or too all-consuming for my cries to register. I ran to her side and tried to pull her away from the vehicle. I grabbed the tire iron with both hands and wrestled it from her grip. This was no easy feat even considering my significant height advantage. Lauren was a personal trainer, she was damn strong and I… wasn’t. I threw the tire iron away. It landed on the driveway with a satisfying clatter. I held my hands up to show I came in peace. “Lauren, it’s me. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Lauren’s breathing slowed. She took a look at the damaged car and then shifted her focus back to me. For a second I thought she was about to break down crying. Instead, she went in on me in a whirlwind of fists. It was only when she’d slammed my body against the hood, pinning my head down with the flat of her hand, that I think she understood her aggression was misdirected.
Lauren was good enough to lend me a bag of frozen corn for my bruises, but that was where her charity ended. “Don’t try to drive it,” she told me. “Not that I care if you live or die, but I slashed the tires and I don’t want to be liable for any more damage.” I’d had to explain to her just whose car she’d beaten up.
“Can I at least get a ride to the Go train?” I called after her as she strode over to her SUV. “I’m not robbing you anymore!”
She never looked back at me. “Nope.”
“C’mon, I’m going to be out hundreds of dollars because of you.”
She flipped me off as she continued walking away. “Don’t care.”
I knew what this looked like to the tow truck driver and the guys at the garage, which wasn’t too far from what it was. The tow truck cleaned me out, so much so that the rideshare app declined my credit card. With no change for the bus, and being far from the closest train station, I had no choice but to walk my ass over to Lauren’s gym and beg a ride from her.
She was just wrapping up her yoga class. The women in their leggings and floral dri-fit shirts were supine on their mats, their chests rising and falling with each dramatic inhalation and exhalation. Lauren put a hand up to halt me when she spied me on the other side of the glass wall. Once her pupils had hit the showers, she came out to meet me, forbidding me trespassing in her sacred space. I swear I’d heard her utter the phrase, “This is the garden,” to her class minutes earlier. The fluorescent lights showed the garden to be bounded by cinderblock walls, basketball court floors, and a mineral fiber drop ceiling.
“What do you want?” the gardener demanded.
I explained the situation with my credit card.
She kissed her teeth. “Well, that blows.”
I kneaded my face with an open palm. “Don’t you feel just the slightest bit sorry for me?”
“That is not the word I’d use.” I was beginning to doubt whether it was even a word in Lauren’s vocabulary when she told me: “Look, I have to teach spin in five minutes and then I have to pick up the boys from school.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?”
Lauren threw her hands up. “You can either wait in the lobby or you can come hop on a bike.”
I chose the latter option. Better than sitting around and stewing over how I’d explain to Matt what happened to his car. Besides, I figured it was a free spin class and I needed the exercise. I’d given up my gym membership upon the termination of my employment and my newly sedentary lifestyle was beginning to show in my hips. I donned the wacky plastic shoes that clipped into the pedals and mounted a bike in my jeans and flannel. I’d heard spin was meant to provide some kind of ersatz spiritual experience. But with the lights low, the music thumping in time with my heartbeat, and sweat pouring down my body, all I could think about was how pissed I was. Indeed, incensed at my brother for putting me in this dubious position. I couldn’t believe his selfishness. I wanted to kill him. I channeled rage into the bike, pedaling with a fury I’d never known, gripping the handlebars like I was throttling them. It wasn’t just my brother I was angry with, it was everything and nothing. I was enraged at every twist of fate that had delivered me these circumstances – jobless, broke, fat, on the cusp of a breakup thanks to the state of my boyfriend’s car – and every twist of fate that hadn’t occurred to guide me in another direction.
Lauren took her time fetching me at the end of the ride; there were hugs and high-fives and towels to be doled out to the paying customers. Once they had all sauntered off, she made her way over to me. “That’ll be twenty-nine-ninety-nine,” she said, just about knocking me off my bike.
“What?” I said.
“You didn’t think I was going to let you get away with leeching a free spin class off me, did you? This gym has policies. We accept debit or credit or you can pay through our app.” She was serious and smug. I had to remind myself to be patient with her. She was going through a divorce and, above all, I needed a ride.
She drove me to the train station as promised, but not until after we picked up my nephews from school. “Do not mention the D-word,” she instructed me in the car. It hadn’t even occurred to me that the boys would not be privy to this new development, but of course they weren’t. They were perplexed by my presence but tried to feign some excitement about it. Never the fun uncle, they perceived me as just another boring adult on the periphery, wary of me as they were their school principal or dentist. I couldn’t help that I wasn’t playful, I’d spent my own childhood longing for the freedom of the adult world so I could live my life on my own terms. I haven’t had any desire to go back since crossing that threshold and as a result I find it difficult to relate to children, even the ones I’m related to.
“How was school today,” I asked. My way of making an effort.
“Fine,” my nephews responded in an unenthused chorus.
“Cole,” Lauren said, “did you and Sarah hold hands at recess again?”
Cole’s face lit up in the rearview mirror. “We did! And we hugged before we went back to class, too!”
“That’s sweet, buddy,” Lauren said.
Cole nodded. “I think I’m going to kiss her soon.”
Lauren cocked an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Be sure you ask for her permission first.”
“Every time?”
“Every time.”
“Dad doesn’t ask permission every time he kisses you,” Charlie chimed in.
This declaration sent a little jolt through Lauren. Her brow furrowed, the muscles in her neck tightened, and a frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. She threw on her turn signal and pulled onto a side street.
“Where are we going?” Cole asked.
“I just need to stop for a second,” Lauren replied, her voice tight. She put the car in park and stepped out onto the road. With six beady eyes trained on her from within the vehicle, Lauren hustled down the street. She paused fifty feet ahead of us. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs.
The boys didn’t have to ask if she was crying, they knew well what that looked like, but they wanted to know why. I was sick to my stomach to have to lie to them and say: “I don’t know.”
I arrived at the bar early for the birthday party, but of course Matt was even earlier. I ordered drinks for both of us to smooth down the edges of the jagged pill I was about to shove down his throat. When they appeared, I chugged mine and waited until Matt had taken a couple discrete sips to deliver the news about his car. Little did I know that Matt had signed up for the first karaoke slot. So just as I was trying to launch into my explanation with a grave, “I have to tell you something,” Rachel Parity, the drag queen host in her fishnets and pleasers was calling out: “Matt!... Matty!... Matthew!...” The opening bars of “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” started up over the sound system. House rules went that if you did not show up to claim your spot at the mic, Rachel would sing your chosen song in your absence.
Just as Matt was meant to be hollering out, Let’s go, girls! I said to him: “Your car’s in the shop in Hamilton. It’s kind of fucked up… No, it’s really fucked up.”
He looked at me for a minute that felt eternal. I hastily repeated myself, adding that I would pay for all the repairs.
Matt breathed a heavy sigh. “I’m not going to let you do that. But I just have to do this…” He wrapped his fingers around my neck and thrust his face right up in mine. “Fuck yoooooooou!” He screamed at me. And then dropped his hands and pushed me away with a dopey smile. “Just had to get that off my chest.” He kissed me quick and ran up onstage in time to jump on the chorus.
I’m happy to report we went home together that night and every following night. His car was repaired and he soon forgave me, though he never forgot. I ask sometimes if he will ever stop telling this story. His stock answer: “No, you will never live this down.” I can’t say it’s all bad though. It’s stories like these that we share above all other community property. Well, at least I got to tell this one from my point of view just this once. Ask Matt for his perspective if you ever see him at a bar or a dinner party. I’ll probably be there as well, cringing and cowering in a nearby corner.
About the Author
Some people are just spineless. Some people are weak, mealy-mouthed neurotics and I want to know what makes them tick.
Hi, I'm Spencer. I'm a writer obsessed with the inner lives of people who have three deadbolts on their door, who won't take the subway for fear of the tunnel collapsing, and who would rather die than have sex with the lights on. spineless is my fiction newsletter that explores how we become these people and the forces that compel us to change our ways. In my stories you'll read about characters fighting with everything they have to maintain or reassert the status quo, even when the status quo is anything but normal.