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5:22 p.m. - April 06, 2002 'Ah! Hannah," Timothy said when I picked up a violin, smiling his half smile. "Don't play that one. I've got a better one here for you to play." "Well, I don't exactly play.." I was beginning when Timothy interrupted. "Well, you then," he said to the man behind me. "Would you?" Noting Timothy's proud expression, the man asked, "Did you make it?" "Yes," said Timothy. "Is it your first?" "Yes," said Timothy again, cradling it. They were talking about violin making when I went to take a phone call in the shipping room. As I was coming back, I heard a great bellow of laughter and disbelief from the customer in with Timothy. "Yes," he was saying in between breaths, "but I don't know how that in any way pertains to what we were talking about." He looked at me, amazed, as I walked in the door. His face was contorted oddly. Timothy simply smiled beatifically, as he tends to do. "What? What did he say?" I asked the customer, knowing full well Timothy could have said anything. "I asked him if he was Jewish," responded Timothy, "and he said yes. That's nice, isn't it?" I looked at them. The customer had given Timothy back his violin and bow, and Timothy was peacefully replacing them in their case, completely oblivious. Just then, Mike the repairman walked in, and the customer raced away and pounced on him, carrying his flute. "Now, this is what I need done.." "I wanted to talk to him about God," Timothy said, "that's all. And I wanted to know where he was coming from." "Well.." I said, not wanting to tell Timothy he can't just randomly start up conversations about God and ask people what religion they are, because he wouldn't have understood why not, and I didn't either, really, "why?" "Because I love him," he said. "OK. Why?" I asked. "Because he's my brother," he said, looking slightly ruffled. "Brothers in spirituality. I like to ask Jewish people what they do on Fridays and Saturdays, you know, because it's the Sabbath, for them. I'm curious." With that, he headed off for Mike's repair table. "I made a friend," he announced to Mike when he got there, pointing at the customer, who raised his eyebrows but retained a semblance of a smile. Billy glared from his neighbouring table. Billy dislikes Timothy. I went over to Billy's table and shut the door separating Mike's office from Billy's. I was getting a headache from all of Timothy's declarations, and I was cringing for him as well. "Well, what the hell happened to that flute dude, and why was he poking his nose in my office?" Billy said, looking up from the saxophone he was pounding. "Timothy tried to talk to him about God," I said, at which Billy let out a great burst of laughter, and Billy never laughs. "That should be a punishment for unruly customers," he said, snorting. "Have them talk to Timothy about God." I laughed, too, despite myself. Timothy, that poor man. He lacks some portion of his brain that gives him social awareness, for sure. But I'm tired of being so careful with him. -------- When I got home, I looked through some old photo albums and listened to Mr. Bungle on my dad's stereo system, which kicks the ass of any other sound system I've ever heard. There were a few pictures that made me remember odd things, such as: Picture #1: Me in a nightgown, age six, wrapped up in a green flowered sheet on a couch in my playroom. When I was about eight, my mother decided to get rid of this couch I'd had forever. It was a fold out couch that I used to have sleepovers on; the one Yexin and I hid from thunderstorms under, the one with the broken hinges I clutched in my sleep, the one I was in when Megan told me she was moving to England. The men came to take it away on a Sunday, and the night before, I wrote a poem for the couch on my MagnaDoodle that I then left on the broken, spilling cushions for the men to see when they tried to take it. I was hoping it would tug at their heartstrings and they would refuse to take it. 'Couch, O Couch, please don't go. I love you so much and you should know. Please don't take my couch away, to sit outside under the pouring rain, for days and days.' In the hustle when they tumbled it onto its side, the MagnaDoodle with the poem on it was crushed into pieces under the couch's left leg. Picture #2: My dad's side of the family. Me, age three. My grandfather, age 77. Three years before he killed himself. I'm doing a handstand in the centre of the picture and everyone is looking at me, smiling. My grandfather is looking as well, but he has a hollow look on his face and seems to be deep in thought. Picture #3: Same picture, only I've sat down like a normal person and everyone is posing, looking straight at the camera. Except my grandfather. His eyes are fixed on the exact spot they were when I was doing a handstand, except there's nothing there now and he doesn't seem to notice. Picture #4: My grandfather's funeral. Me, age 6. Him, preserved forever at age 80. My dad and his sisters and his brothers all in suits, the dreamy sister in a somber suit, looking at the clouds. The English teacher sister is looking at my dad, who's making a goofy face. The odd brother is imperceptibly sticking out his tongue. My grandmother is in the background, sitting on the steps. Picture #5: The night after the funeral, my cousins and I all camped out on the floor of my grandmother's old big house, the one where my dad grew up. My ten year old cousin is sprawled all over the floor. My eleven year old cousin is half under the couch. My nineteen year old cousin is still up somewhere. I'm reading a book by flashlight. Picture #6: The day my father was born. His mother is holding him, wrapped in what looks like a dress but is really 1940's baby wear. She's wearing a fitted dress. My grandfather is smiling and pointing to the baby, appealing to my dad's older sister, Gail, who has her lower lip out and looks about ready to wail.
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