Boys and Their Toys
The young boys, maybe seven and eight, were high-strung after eating souvlaki. It was time to travel down the streets of Patras some more. The two families crossed the street. The older boys, maybe twelve and thirteen, were to go with the one mother, the younger boys with the other. The one young boy stood frozen, his back to the street, peering into the window of a retail store. The other young boy walked over to him, stood to the left of him, peered through the window too and put his right arm around the other boy’s right shoulder. The two—short, almost identical in height—would peer together at the toys in the shop’s window. The mothers kept talking but were getting ready to go separately. Over lunch, they spoke Italian; now they spoke English. Come boys, the one Mom said to the young boys. Come. The boy loosened his grip on the shoulder of the other and walked steadily to a narrow shelf outside that contained childrens’ books and put his hand upon some and held it still. The other boy, who originally took the initiative entered the toy store by four steps. Come on you two, the mother said. The boy loosened his grip on the books and came closer to his Mom and stood still; the initiating boy turned 45 degrees and stood staring up at the woman in silence. Come on you two. She would say again, intensifying but not yelling nor being menacing. The boy would continue to stand in the foyer of the shop. Come, come on. The boy would finally leave the shop and waddle behind the two of them, ever slowly, not looking down, nor looking up. The Mom and older two boys parted south cheerfully, the Mom with the young boys began crossing the street. Hands, boys, hands. The one boy would clasp her right hand, she would leave her left outward jarred behind her for a few moments as she walked, the two walking for the corner on the northeast edge of the street’s block. They would walk north then east in a dog-leg pattern around the sidewalk, the initiating boy would walk behind them, never taking her hand. She never asked again that day. Both young boys would walk crestfallen.
The hero image above is of the entertainment district of Patras, Greece. Patras is a port city, medium in size in western Greece, situated at the eastern tip of the Gulf of Patras which runs into the Ionian Sea.
Becoming Something
At what point does someone become something?
One can do something, but not be that something.
“You a golfer?” I would say to the businessman.
“I golf.” He would respond with a slight chuckle; both of us would then smile in understanding.
Becoming something is a rite of passage. There seems to be a line. With something so personal, it’s counter-intuitive that it has very little to do with the self, but instead, with those responding to the self.
The doctor isn’t a doctor unless the correct authoritative body enshrined by another authoritative body enshrined by another authoritative body told him so.
“Are you a skier?” I’ve been asked many times. I ski, but I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone, ever, that I’m a skier. I may have to practice more, if so.
It’s the response or judgement of others, whether in monologue or dialogue, that illuminates the line.
This morning I was asked if I was a writer. I consider myself one, and have told others that I am. But this morning when asked by the woman at the coffee shop, I responded with a smile, “I write.”
And so it tells me that there is more yet to do.
And I would be happy to practice more.
The hero image picture depicts Lake Ontario, from Harbourfront Centre, with Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport in the background.
Premonitions
He once told his dear friend, an Indian woman that one day he would end up marrying her or a Turkish woman he was seeing. The Turkish woman married someone else and the Indian woman and him would end up seeing each other briefly a decade later, but they never did kiss. He found her unreliable and he told her so. In that hiatus, he would fall madly in love with a Caucasian woman that he absolutely adored in company, sex and kisses. To and fro, they would end the relationship with each other, like a game of volley. She would return with a final offer in which he rejected. Over time, he would go on to believe he would marry an Indian or Spanish woman. He met a Spanish woman that reminded him of his Indian friend in every way shape and form, except culture. In that bar in Milano, he didn’t get her phone number but instead gave her his email address because he hadn’t charged his phone with the change in electrical outlet systems travelling from Switzerland to Italy that day. He never did hear from the Spanish woman.