the apple-sauce.

usually i get off the highway and head for ’moca loca’ for a coffee. sometimes i go to ’aladdin.’ today my kundalini rose a bit before st. joseph boulevard so i kept on going, just to enjoy for a while. that may seem odd, almost certainly curious, but it’s why i ended up with a killer cappuccino and a muffin at ‘robo cafe’ on somerset street before heading to the gym.

there was an ancient-looking guy in there with a coffee in front of him and a tiffin full of what from a distance looked like apple sauce. it might’ve been anything but i imagined apple sauce. because the fellow did not seem overly pleased, reminded me of my old dad during his final few days and how a simple bowl of apple sauce made him crazy.

i’d walked in to his hospital room only to find five people surrounding his bed. there were two frightened-looking nurses, a concerned-looking social worker, a sincere-looking chaplain and a physician who was hard to read. They were collectively trying to settle him down. My dad was lucid up until the end, only as cranky as all get-out. And he was certainly cranky that morning. There was a tray of barely-eaten food discarded on a small table that he’d pushed aside. there was a tension in the room you could’ve cut with the plastic knife.

“what do you want judge vanek?,” the social worker was asking. “tell us what you want and we’ll do our very best to get it for you.” there was a momentary silence during which i could see dad was considering the question. then he looked up and in a most authoritarian tone he barked: “i want an apple!” for whatever reason, that made the whole group laugh uproariously. and at the same time, perhaps because i had arrived, they all filed out.

as i watched the old man in ‘robo cafe’ scowl down at what i imagined was apple-sauce, the young attractive barista went over, sat down across and took his hand. his whole expression changed as the girl spoke. his whole demeanour lightened, brightened as she smiled lovingly and i wondered if i’d had anything close to that effect on my old guy.

i sat down on his bed that morning curious why he’d been so upset. his whole expression did not change. his whole demeanour did not lighten, brighten, not that i recall. but then i never held his hand. perhaps i should’ve. he just muttered something about the rotten food and demanded the ‘globe and mail’ newspaper i always brought.

the paper was a little scrunched up from having been in the bottom of my sack. he shot me a disapproving glance but didn’t say anything as he opened up the first page. at that moment, however, one of the nurses came in tentatively with a small tray. she did not look relaxed as we watched her clear away dad’s breakfast and replace it with what she’d brought. on that tray was one bowl, of apple-sauce.

“what the hell is that?!,” dad hollered.
“sir that is apple-sauce.”
“did i ask for goddamn apple-sauce?!”
“sir you can’t eat an apple,” the nurse said in self-defence.
“how do you know i wanted to eat it!?,” he hollered loud enough to wake the dead. “maybe i just wanted to lick it or sniff it!”

the nurse quickly began to snatch up her tray before dad, rather softly, put his hand over hers and asked her to leave it. he actually thanked her as she left and the old bugger winked over at me: “cute aye. you know, she’s east indian. you should ask her out.”