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From: lindsey.k@sympatico.ca (lindsey K)
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Subject: {ASSM} Slightly Fictionalized Autobiography Lindsey K  Ch. 3 (reluctant AB, diaper discipline)
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Date: Sun, 17 Oct 2004 11:10:03 -0400
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The Uncommon Life of Lindsey K. 
a slightly fictionalized autobiography - believe what you will) 

Chapter 3: Spaniards in the Fog

                                  Forward
              (Preamble - skip it if you have already read it)

I met Lindsey through my agent a few months ago. He had read one of my
books - he didn't like it mind you, and was not afraid to tell me this
- but wrote to me because he thought I had a generous, sympathetic
tone and he figured he could talk to me.

He wrote a twenty some odd page hand-written letter on this ridiculous
Winnie the Pooh stationary in pencil crayon, explaining to me his
plight. H emailed it to my publisher where it was then sent to my
agent, who in turn, handed it over to me. The letter was brutally
honest, so much in fact, that at times reading I found myself cringing
at what he was telling me about himself. I was moved by the poignancy
of it. I was impressed by his ability to keep a sense of humor. He
just wanted someone to talk to. I decided that I would try to help.

I have since discovered from my colleagues that a number of them
either had similar letters from Lindsey, or knew of others who did. It
seems I was conned. Nonetheless, I still continued to believe what he
told me in the letter and agreed to help however I could. I am trying
to get him to focus his attention on writing. He has some talent, I
think. It needs to be nurtured a bit, and well, he does seem to have a
lot of spare time on his hands.

Lindsey is a 29 year old man, trapped in the body of an eight year
old. Mind you, I have never met him face to face, nor have never seen
a picture of him, but I believe him. Working with words for a living,
you get pretty good at detecting truth from fiction and in my
estimation, he is speaking the truth.

Lindsey in his past, has participated in the less than noble
profession of a con-artistry, playing on the maternal urges of women
to get them to support him financially. Two years ago, his Aunt
Claire, an Amazonian Lawyer (his description), put a stop to all of
this taking over legal guardianship of him. I am not exactly sure how
she can do this - by what letter of the law this is possible, but I am
not a lawyer so I will have to trust him on it.

His Aunt keeps him sheltered from the real world and treats him as a
child. When I asked him why she would do this, he simply replied,
"She's Evil, that's why. I thought I made that clear, Dude." He claims
that she revels in humiliating and controlling him this way. I only
have his side of the story, so who knows. Nevertheless, I have never
been comfortable with the notion that someone could be simply "evil".
Even if he is unable to see it, I think that she is less black and
white than that. I am sensing a gray, a dark gray that in the darkness
of Lindsey's current world, cannot be recognized as anything but
black. I think she cares about him on some level, and in some small
way, believes she is doing the right thing. But, then again, I have
never met her either so who knows. She is a lawyer after all.

So, from inside the bowels of the Victorian mansion/law offices in
Ontario where he now resides as a child, Lindsey is trying to reach
out to the real world. I am not sure he even likes writing about his
life much, but the idea that if he could get a book published and
could make some income is motivation enough. His hope is that he might
be able to free himself from his Aunt's bunny-patterned fleece
shackles and get his life back.

If I can help him do that, all the better, 

Milo Ambrose 

-----------

                               Author's Note: 

The author will fully admit that portions of this auto-biography have
been slightly fictionalized for artistic purposes. The author however
refuses to hold the reader's hand through the reading process and tell
you what these portions are. You are all adults (I assume - you better
be) and can take care of yourself. If you have doubts about what I am
telling you, by all means feel free to fact-check if it makes you feel
better (ahem, anal retentive, cough cough). Like I said, its not all
true. I will suggest though, that much of what you may think is
bordering "flights of fancy", may in fact surprise you to learn, is
true. For instance, you may doubt that Mazda ever produced a 1994 626
sedan in blue with faux leather finish on the dash, and you would be
wrong. On the other hand, the highway up to Tofino on the west coast
of Vancouver Island British Columbia does in fact have guard rails to
prevent a are from plummeting down the rocky crags (they were left out
to introduce a feeling of danger - did it work?).

Nothing in this tale contains overtly icky illegal junk. There is no
improper acts between adults and minors or anything like that. The
only crimes I might be guilty of are those of over-indulgent emotional
exhibitionism and bad taste. Legal council has assured me, however
that these are misdemeanors and that I should not be that concerned.

Please feel free to address your concerns, compliments, unbridled
praise etc. by e-mail to the following address: lindsey.k@sympatico.ca
.
Include a return mailing address and I will send along, as my gift to
you, a beautiful gift basket of assorted cheeses from around the
world.* Try the Gambozola - its to die for! If for some reason you do
not get a reply right away from me, it may mean that Aunt Claire has
figured things out and she has changed the Net Nanny password, in
which case, please resend the e-mail to Milo (a friend on the outside)
miloambrose@sympatico.ca and he will find a way to get it to me.
Thanks and enjoy.

* You don't really think I am serious do you? 




Chapter 3: Spaniards in the Fog


Its like an episode of Perry Mason, like the second or third act. It
is a court room scene. It is a big room, cold, sterile, the walls are
lined in a dark wood paneling - I can't tell what kind of wood as the
room is void of pigment, it is grayscale, black and white. On the left
half of the courtroom, the rows of stiff-backed hard wood chairs are
filled with women. I recognize their faces, but their dress is much
different, much more retro - they are wearing dress styles popular in
the fifties. These women, some I knew well, some from only in passing
- they are the women of my life. Tanya is there, sitting next to
Brenda, sitting next to, oh this is bad, what was her name,
Ter...Theresa, and next to her, Sonya, I can't believe it, Sonya is
here, this is so strange. Behind them is another row of women, Nora is
there, looking slightly crazed wearing white gloves, clutching a bible
in her hand, Angela, Elena and, I don't even know her name, she tried
to help me once, early on, the ridiculous fainting spell maneuver, it
was too over-the-top, she called for a doctor, she shouted for someone
to call 911, I awoke suddenly pretending to be dizzy, she wasn't going
to let me get up, then a security guard with lots of keys hanging off
of his belt knelt down and "took charge of the situation," and I made
a break for it when I could, but this woman, I never saw her again but
she would have been one of my caregivers if things had progressed as
planned, she is here for some reason.

Oh my goodness, Alison, my friend from high school, I adored her, I
loved her, she's here, but on the other side of the courtroom, sitting
all alone behind the defense table; she's got a pony tail, wearing
poodle skirt, bobby socks, peddle pushers, she is blowing bubbles in
her bubble gum, it is pink, it is the only colour in the room - she
looks about sixteen, still, somehow - God she is beautiful.

I am scanning their faces, all these women, as if I were a movie
camera. They are all well trained actresses, they know better than to
acknowledge the lens, they act as if the camera isn't there...

There is that smell, plumeria I think, it is strong, it is wafting
through the room. I am trying to place where I know the smell from
when I hear the sound of a gavel hitting a desk. I turn around to see
up at the front of the court, behind a tall monolithic desk, a woman
is perched in a chair. I zoom in, I focus, its Grandma, and she is
wearing a judiciary robe, she does not look to be in good humour. I
know that smell now, frangipani and vanilla or something, its
Grandma's perfume, she used to bathe herself in it.

Grandma is calling for order in the court. Now I pan and pull back, I
go to wide angle and at the defense table, dressed in a man's
three-piece suit, sitting, flipping through pages in her open
briefcase is Aunt Claire. To her left at the prosecution table, there
she is again, same suit, different shade, this one is lighter grey.

Grandma asks the bailiff (oddly enough the security guard from the
mall) to bring in the prisoner. The moment the door at the back of the
court room opens, there is the sound of creaking wood and murmuring as
everyone in the room shifts in their chair to look. The camera is
focused in on the brim of the bailiff's five pointed hat. Then the
camera zooms out slowly to the torso, we see the chest of his uniform,
brass buttons, badge, and then a pan down, down, down slowly -  there
I am in shackles being led into court. I am dressed in the traditional
black and white stripe prisoner's costume from old movies, the cap,
the top, but the camera still pans down further and we see that the
uniform is not a jumpsuit, it is a "onsie" billowing out at the waist
the tell tale form of a ridiculously big diaper.  I am waddling. The
women all give me disdainful looks. I am taken to the prisoner's
docket, but it is not a docket so much but an old fashioned wood play
pen with wooden doweling for bars. The bailiff lifts me off the ground
and plops me inside sitting down. I refuse to lift my head, I am
staring at my feet, my black and white stripped socks inside patent
white leather buster browns.

Claire #2, the prosecution, begins to make her case in the opening
remarks: it is to be proven here today that I am a manipulator, a
heartless con-artist, playing upon the sympathies and hearts of the
most decent of women.

Claire #1 says that she is not denying that I manipulated women, that
I played upon their sympathies and their good and righteous need to
perform acts of kindness, but I that I did this because I am too
immature to take care of myself, that I was desperate and was looking
for direction, but could never find it - yet, deep down in me, there
is a kind and sweet soul, if only it could be brought out. I am
thinking I am not fond of her defense strategy.

The prosecution witnesses start to take the stand, they all tell
similar stories about me, but with slightly different variations:

Brenda: He told me his Aunt Claire used to punish him severely for
wetting the bed.

Theresa: Well, he told me his Aunt Claire forced him to sleep in a
crib until he was eighteen years old, and he was so convincing.

Nora: I was told by him that he was locked in the garage at night,
that he was worked to the bone doing chores - god save his wretched
little soul!

Sonya: Well, he had me convinced that his Aunt Claire punished him by
dressing him up like a little girl, in dresses.

And it went on and on.

Claire #1, my defense did not cross-examine these witnesses - not word
one.

It was the prosecution's assertion was that none of this was actually
true and that what I had told them was impossible as Aunt Claire was
younger than me when we were growing up. She went on to say that it
was obvious that I insincerely played on these good women's heart
strings, leaving them all without the ability to ever trust again.
This concluded the prosecution's case, except for the blood-chilling
glare that Claire #2 gave me.

The defense only had one witness, dear lovely Alison.
 
Alison: (Between bubbles) Yeh I knew Lindsey, (she paused to look at
me, gave me a little wave and a wink, blew a bubble and then
continued) he was sweet, real cute n'all, a good little guy. He don't
mean nobody no harm, not really.

Claire #1: Anything else?

Alison: Yeah, (giggle) he was real funny too.

Claire #1: Is that it?

Alison shrugged her shoulders and grinned.

This vapid teenager - this is not how I remembered Alison at all. 

Grandma went to her chambers to formulate her verdict, the court was
in recess and I looked up from inside the playpen and everyone was
gone, the room was empty, cold.

"I object!" I heard from behind me, the voice of Aunt Claire. I was
unsure which one it was. I turned around to take a look, and now I was
gazing up at this mountain of linen. She was this giant shifting mass
under a pile of covers on the bed in Grandma's bedroom. Mount Claire.
I was looking from floor level from inside the closet. Aunt Claire was
trying a case in her sleep between loud earth-rumbling snores.

The smell of perfume was strong and I realized why. I was laying under
a whole row of Grandma's old dresses.

I put my head down on the pillow and adjusted myself uncomfortably on
the crib mattress and thought to myself: "My god, why do I always have
to have such horribly trite and clich�'d dreams?"


I wasn't even going to include the dream here, but this is Chapter
three and the dream sequence is a popular device to start a new
chapter. Please forgive my subconscious - I know it was derivative of
the lowest forms of pop culture. The court room dream to deal with
guilt - its been done so many times, they even did it on Happy Days
for god sakes. Be thankful you aren't paying for this.


                                  * * *

It's morning sometime. I am not sure how I know this, there isn't much
light bleeding in through the curtains, but it feels "morning-ish" and
I need to pee. So I wonder, do I risk waking the dragon by sneaking
out of the cave, or do I lay here and let nature take its humiliating
course?

I decide to go for it - a gutsy move considering what I don't know.

What I don't know

Well there are all sorts of things I don't know. But what I don't know
pertaining to this situation is as follows:

1. I don't know that Aunt Claire has not been sleeping well 
   lately and is very tired.

2. I don't know that she has been through about ten time zone changes 
   in the last two weeks and is her body clock is so far out of 
   whack that she is either a couple days ahead or a couple days 
   behind (I don't know where she has been so I can't know which 
   is right).

3. I don't know where she has been.

4. I don't know that I could probably tap dance on her pillow and 
   she wouldn't wake up, and therefore can very easily escape this 
   room without rousing her.

5. I don't know how to tap dance.


It took me about five minutes to get from the closet to the bathroom
downstairs. Tippy-toes, stopping breathless every time she moved. The
stairs in this cottage creak like hell. But at the downstairs bathroom
(my choice because it would be quieter), I felt like I was free and
clear.

Then, as habit, without thinking, I flushed.

I am such a fucking idiot! I stood there paralyzed with fear, awaiting
the angry footsteps of Aunt Claire to come bounding down the stairs.
Where do I hide? I might fit in the cabinet. Should I run? Should I
hit the beach, run over to the resort next door and scream out Tanya's
name and beg and plead for her to take me in. What a weird sight that
would be. Would people think they were viewing a very experimental
production of a Street Car Named Desire featuring an eight year old
Stanley Kowolski in a diaper?

"Tanya!"

Um yeh.

But I heard no angry thumping of feet, no loud creaking of stairs, no
angry shouts of my name, nothing but the faint sound of snoring in the
distance. I feel I am the luckiest motherfucker in the world.

A lot of stuff I don't know.


There is a damp chill in the air. I had a cursory look for my clothes
but they were not to be found. Didn't matter too much, I knew I had to
go back upstairs to bed. Every second I wasn't there I knew I was
pressing my luck. I would have headed straight up if it was not for
the reflection I saw in the glass of the patio door. There I was in
all my glory, an oversized toddler (gender indeterminate), or at the
very least, costumed as such.

But it was what was beyond the reflection that attracted my attention.
The fog had rolled in over night, and early this morning, before the
sun was up to burn it off, it seemed that all of Tofino was the set
for a really cheesy 80's heavy metal band video. Any moment I expected
the dry ice to clear to see a nearly naked girl in a cage writhing on
our sundeck, while some make-up wearing, leather-panted poser stuck
out his tongue proudly and masturbated the neck of his guitar while
standing in Grandma's perennials.

That's the kind of music Zack liked. He tried to convert me but it
never quite stuck. Zack was, for a very short time about seven years
ago, my surrogate big brother. I was twenty one, he was nineteen. He
may have been younger, but he was like a big brother to me. He had
done a lot more stuff than I, he had numerous dalliances on the
darker, seedier side of life, and well, he wasn't a virgin. That was
good enough for me.

Zack had only recently moved out on his own. His absence gave me an
"in" with his Mom. Sonya, the poor dear, was going through a rather
severe bout of empty-nest syndrome at the time I first met her at the
food court. I came home from the mall with her that day and moved
right in to Zack's old room. Problem solved. I was supplying a need,
filling a hole. What a good Samaritan I was.

It was a nice change for me, living on a warm caring home - and Sonya
didn't amuse herself by humiliating me, dressing me up in party
dresses to show me off to her bridge party players, making me curtsey
and talk with an effeminate lisp like my Evil Aunt Claire did. Sonya
doted on me in a motherly fashion, she bought me clothes and took me
out to movies - we were connected at the hip for four months.

About three months into our new family arrangement, Sonya suggested a
camping trip. You see, I had never been camping before, in fact I
barely left my house growing up. Aunt Claire would take her daughter
on trips all the time, skiing, to Hawaii and Disneyland, but she
always made me stay home with a babysitter. Tragic, I know. So she
planned a camping trip, in Tofino of all places, in fact not three
miles down the road from here at Chesterman Beach. At the last minute,
I found out Zack was coming with us. "You'll like him a lot," she told
me.

To be honest I was a bit leery about the idea of meeting her teenage
son. For one, I thought he might be jealous of me honing in on his
territory, and consequently, pick on me at every opportunity. Two, I
found myself jealous of him. I may be her pet project and she cared
about me, but he was her son, the one she never stopped talking about.
I kind of wished he wasn't going to be hogging all of her attention on
what was (to her) my first camping experience.

But like I said, Zack surprised me - he was cool. He liked the fact
that I was "hangin'" with his Mom so she wasn't lonely. He called me
"Dude". It was infectious, I still can't shake the term from my
vocabulary.

Tofino is a collection of long sandy beaches, broken up every mile or
so by volcanic rock that at one time mingled its way down from the
mountains to the ocean to take a dip, millions of years ago. The
molten tourist liked it so much it stayed. One of these lava loiterers
is the only thing that separates Chesterman beach from McKenzie beach,
or more importantly, our campground from Grandma's place. It was
summer and I knew there was a good chance Grandma and Claire were at
the cottage. I had to keep a low profile or my cover would be blown
and I would be hitch hiking over two hundred kilometers back to
Victoria.

As luck would have it, I never did see Grandma or Claire that week. I
had a blast, slept in a tent, roasted marshmallows, and listened to
Zack spin his tales of sexual depravity while his mother was out of
earshot. He didn't treat me like a little kid, which was refreshing.
He didn't get mad when we played Frisbee and I threw like a six year
old girl - he didn't mind slowing his pace so I could keep up. He
would say, "Don't sweat it Dude."

He wasn't quite so kind two months later when I bumped into him at the
mall. I had disappeared from his Mother's house one morning three
weeks before - she was starting to expect me to do chores to earn my
keep. Her warm fuzzy-sweater charm was starting to wane. She lost her
patience with me more easily - she was starting to feel taken
advantage of. Gone were the days when my unmade bed went unmentioned
and then later miraculously made itself. My dirty clothes on the floor
had lost their endearing childlike charm.

So I took a hike one day, never looked back. I got a furnished
apartment, rented month by month (had to play two months in advance
because I had no credit - couldn't blame them) and within a week or so
I was trolling the malls for the next big catch.

When I unserendipitously bumped into Zack, he was pissed. He told me
his Mom cried for weeks after I left and wondered if I had died. I
remember thinking. "Okay, now I die."

I waited for him to drag me outside and beat the living hell out of
me. Instead he just shook his head at me with disgust and said, "And
to think I thought you were cool, dude." And with that he walked away.

Okay, I'll admit - that one stung a bit.

But the point to all of this, the reason I am remembering all this
stuff right now, is the fog. Our last day in Tofino, Zack woke me up
early in the morning when it was still dark. "Hey Dude, we're going to
the beach" he said.

I remember stepping out of the tent and barely being able to see ten
feet in front of me. He was big and easy to see ahead of me so I let
him lead the way to the water.

"Cool huh Dude?"  He asked.

"Yeh, this fog is amazing." I said. I am a good actor. I had seen the
Tofino fog many times before when staying with Grandma - still
something about this day made it seem especially...well, it was just
different.

We sat on an old log and he threw little pebbles and things into the
encroaching tide. I considered trying it myself, but that would have
been embarrassing - instead I watched him do it. He could really throw
far.

"In the 1700's, the Spanish were here, all up the coast Dude."

"Yeh?" I am ashamed to say I did not know this.

"Yeh, and right here, on this beach, they landed. They didn't mean to
but it was real foggy, like this and their boats hit the rocks at the
point out there." He threw a piece of beach glass in the direction he
was referring to. It plunked into the water and sounded like the sound
of oatmeal as it first starts to boil.

"blup."

Zack continued his history lesson. I didn't mind, I was finding it
fascinating. "The natives greeted them here, told them to stay as long
as they needed to repair their ships - they brought them food and
gifts and stuff."

"Cool,"

"Yeh - but they said, the only condition - they tell em they have to
stay away from their women."

"Party poopers," I joked.

He didn't find my comment nearly as funny as I did.

"So anyway, the Spanish are camped out here on the beach and one of
them sees this native chick. He tries to talk to her and she runs
away. He chases her and then well, he rapes her Dude."

"Oh," I said feeling a little ashamed of my ever-so-sophisticated
"party-pooper" quip.

"And that night when they are all sleeping out her, all the sailors,
the natives creep up on them and ambush them, slaughtered them all
Dude, hacked them up into little pieces, like forty, fifty of these
Spanish guys. The beach was red, with like blood." He is like a cross
between the sober intensity of Lawrence Olivier in "Henry the V" and
the colloquial bemusement of Sean Penn as "Spicoli" in "Fast Times at
Ridgemont High". I have watched too many movies.

"This really happen?" I asked.

"Yup, I swear Dude. But there's more." 

"What?"

"They say, that on foggy mornings like this, if you listen really
carefully, you can hear the faint clink of Spanish armour as it walks
along the beach, you can hear their voices, listen carefully..." He
leaned in towards the beach, craning his neck.

My heart was racing, I listened intensely, I swore I heard it. If I
had hair on my arms and legs, it would have been standing straight up.

Then he saw something down the beach, his eyes widened and he yelled,
"Dude, here they come!" pointing into the fog.

I felt a heavy hand come down on my shoulder. I screamed, "Oh Fu..."

"Lindsey, who said you could get out of bed?!"

I was so enraptured by my nostalgic wanderings that I never heard the
dainty steps of Aunt Claire coming downstairs. I am trying to decide
what was scarier, the dead Spaniards or her. If I hadn't used the
bathroom a few minutes before, the diaper would be hanging heavy about
then.


After a couple more hours of riding the crib mattress in the closet I
find myself at the breakfast table and Claire is telling me that if I
had supplied a "ck" earlier that morning to my abbreviated expletive
when she caught me looking for Spaniards in the fog, I would be
sucking on a bar of ivory instead enjoying the gastronomic delight
that is my soggy Shreddies. She had poured the milk before she went
upstairs to get me, and now I have what looks like one big milk-logged
lump of cereal in front me. I am hungry though, having missed dinner
the night before so I eat it while she fries bacon to have with her
two eggs sunny side up and hash browns. The family breakfast - very
Normal Rockwell.

She has made coffee. I have always loved the smell of coffee. It
smells much better than it tastes, and tastes better than it makes me
feel. I have to be careful about caffeine, sends my wee heart into
palpitations, same thing with tea or chocolate. But with chocolate,
its worth the risk sometimes. I kind of wish I could drink coffee,
acquire a taste for it - it seems like such an adult drink. I think I
would have mine with a little milk and maybe one sugar - no...I think no
milk, just a little bit of sugar - that is how I would have it, if I
could drink it. Instead I have this apple juice. As far as I can
think, you can only have apple juice one way - straight up, neat. AJ
on the rocks is just tacky.

So I am eating my Shreddie paste and I am thinking about more things I
don't know - things I am somewhat curious about, but don't ask because
I am kind of afraid of the answers.

I don't know what Aunt Claire's place is like in Vancouver - is it a
house? Apartment? Does it have a waterslide? I am guessing it's a
snazzy new high rise apartment - that sounds like her - probably
overlooking Stanley Park, or maybe Yale Town. I don't know if I have
my own room or if I will be sleeping in her closet there as well. I
don't know when we are leaving Tofino. I don't know how long this
social experiment will last - this new family deal. I don't know how
long it will be until she figures I have learned my lesson. I don't
know if she knows how much I am coveting her bacon right now - but if
she did she would probably muzzle me.

"Thou shall not covet thy Auntie's bacon" she would probably say and
wag her finger at me, tapping the metal bars of the muzzle mockingly.
She'd probably then lean in real close and eat it slowly, so I could
hear the sound of it crunching in her razor sharp canines. She would
moan amorously as if on the verge of rapture and then would probably
laugh breathily so I could smell it.

"Finish your breakfast Kiddo," she says, picking up a slice of bacon
from her plate. She kind of smiles at it contemplatively and then
takes a bite.

Mmmm, Sheddie.

Oh yes, I forgot to tell you how absolutely darling I look this
morning. Auntie Claire has been shopping, on-line no doubt - she still
considers this one of the greatest advancements in science in the last
century - the big, international, all-encompassing cybermall that the
internet has become. Now, like anyone who frequently shops the net,
she has been burned by misleading products, I am sure, but she
probably sends them pithy little lawyer-esque e-mails and gets her
money back attached to pathetic pleading apologies. She has a gift for
correspondence that can shatter the confidence and entrepreneurial
spirit of these digital merchants. I can see it now, every time they
go to their inbox they start to break out in a cold sweat. She is both
the best and worst customer to have - she will spend a lot of money if
she is pleased with you and your service, but send her the wrong
colour item, the wrong size, lose it in the mail, or mislead her as a
consumer and you'll wish you never heard of the concept of capitalism.

Part of Aunt Claire's fascination with the endless selection that is
available to her through the internet may come from never being able
to buy anything "off the rack" for herself. I am sure her business
suits (or for that matter, most of her clothes) are tailor-made for
her. She probably has her on personal cobbler  -  she has some of the
biggest female feet in the world. I doubt she thinks I sympathize, but
I do. "Off the rack" for me usually involves clothing designed for
product placement of the latest Disney film. There are so many adult
fashions I will never be able to wear without it looking like a
Halloween costume. I have already come to grips with the idea that I
will never wear a trench coat. My life as a secret agent has ground to
a halt before it has started.
 
Oh yes, I am digressing - I look absolutely darling.

You know those dinner mints that used to be popular in restaurants in
the 70's - the ones that were always sitting in a little dish in the
open air by the cashier, the ones people used to palm through with
their bare hands before the health department realized how unsanitary
that was? They all tasted the same but came in powdery excuses for
pigments, blue, green, yellow, pink. Well that sad excuse for yellow
is the colour of my t-shirt. It has an orange cartoonish grinning sun
emblazoned (rarely is that verb more appropriate) on the front. This
goes nicely with the orange cotton shorts I am wearing, zipper-less,
pocket-less, elastic-waist-banded shorts with the same cartoon sun,
inversed, yellow on orange, on the right leg - very stylish, not too
obvious, just enough to make you realize that this is a matching
outfit. I got these sandals on - they look like baby Birkenstocks.

Oh yes, and what is the best dressed young lad wearing for
undergarments these days? They are practical - they are cotton
training pants - but wait, there is more! These have fun cartoon
prints on them - that's right, practical and fun! Lindsey is sporting
Sesame Street on parade today - all of his best friends are there -
Big Bird, Elmo, Oscar the Grouch, Bert and Ernie - it's a party in
your pants! They are bulky and don't make the slightest pretense that
they are regular underwear. They are gender neutral, no attempt to
even put the fa�ade of a utility flap (is that what they call that on
guy's underwear? I don't know, I don't think guys ever use it anyway)
on the front panel. Under the billowing orange of my shorts I know
they must be somewhat obvious.

It turns out that when I got up this morning and made my cursory look
for my clothes, I never would have found them. A part of my shirt from
yesterday is folded neatly over the kitchen faucet, starting its new
life as a rag today. I am not sure what my parts are doing - but if it
saw what happened to the shirt, if it had any sense, they ran for the
hills.

Out of the blue, a complete non-sequitor came in from left field
(grammarians, don't snicker). "You'll like Ontario, Kiddo."

Okay, I'll bite. "Ontario Auntie?"

So it seems that one of the most prestigious law firms in the country
in Vancouver wasn't good enough for her. She had a "disagreement" with
the chief partner and left with a sizable amount of the clientele and
a few of the partners. She re-located to London Ontario (the reason
for this location I am not sure) and started her own firm. She did
this six months ago. I had heard nothing of this - but then again, how
could I? I was incommunicado - you couldn't get me on the Fisher Price
phone.

She explained this to me in terms a child could understand. "You're
Auntie started her own business in London Ontario, kiddo. That is
where we are living - isn't that neat?"

"Yeah Auntie, neat-o," I said but not nearly as sarcastically as it
comes off here. She slapped my hand anyway - she knew what I was
doing. It's tough to get anything past Claire.

I can't say the idea of going to Ontario thrilled me much. I had never
been there but I knew the winters were cold and crappy and the summers
were hot and sticky, and everything in between  was on the verge of
going in either of those two directions at the slightest moment. I had
lived in BC my whole life - well to be more exact, Victoria. I went to
Alberta once, I'd been down to the states - did the Anaheim thing (the
Mickey Mouse boogaloo) - I knew enough that Victoria was a pretty
"choice" place to be. I did not have a terribly adventurous spirit.

With the word Ontario still lingering in the air, I started to think
about the life I was leaving behind, the friends... okay, well at least
the scenery - I would miss the scenery.

"I think you'll really like Gina too," she said and then took a sip of
her coffee.

"Gina?" I asked.

"Your Nanny," she said.

Oh geez.

                                     * * * 
  

Aunt Claire flies first class for several reasons: 1. The seats are
bigger and can better accommodate her (she still pays for two seats
but that is more so she has room to spread out her portable office).
2. The service (that is a no-brainer), and 3. She can afford to, every
flight she takes is usually billed to one client or another with deep
pockets, and for those that are not billable (like ours today) she is
making sure to do a little work on the way so she can write it off.

Before today, I only knew coach and that was only once to California
about fifteen years ago. This is much nicer. Wish I could have enjoyed
it more. Let's just say, that today was not a banner day for Lindsey.

But first, to get you up to speed:

The day of the sunshine shirt, the day when I found out about Ontario,
that was two days earlier. The sun didn't burn off the fog until
mid-day. Until the weather improved Aunt Claire did some work and I
did some nothing. I asked if I could go out for a walk as I wanted to
see if I could track Tanya down. Claire raised her reading glasses and
looked at me as if I was insane. "Are you insane?" She asked.

See what I mean?

"No I just wanted to go for a walk..."

"After yesterday you think I am letting you leave this house
unsupervised?"

"I am guessing no," I said.

"Watch your tone little boy," she said coolly.

I would have commented on how it is impossible to watch a tone, one
listens to a tone - but, even in this current state of affairs, I
still value my life.

"Sorry Auntie," I said. God I am such a wuss.

"We'll go out when the fog lifts." She said.

And we did. We walked the beach, my little hand in her big one,
reminiscent of the whole rogue wave episode when we were little. She
seemed rather proud of how I looked in my little outfit. I felt as
though everyone was staring, I looked like such a dork. But when I
heard a couple adolescent boys snicker, I sensed for once that it was
not me that they were snickering at, it was Aunt Claire. She heard it
too, although she pretended she didn't -  she kept her head held high.
I realized then that she was more of a spectacle than I was, and I
know those stupid kids got to her, but she never let it show. I don't
know, I can't help but admire that a little. Even if she is evil.

We never did see Tanya that day - she may have gone home in the
morning. In a way I am kind of glad we didn't. Having her see me this
way would have been a little more than I could take.

That night after dinner, I discovered that my new bedtime was 7:30
p.m.. That shouldn't impinge on my night life too much, should it? The
idea of going to bed before prime time irked me - I would miss all the
best shows, I thought. I was left with Entertainment Tonight and
re-runs of Friends, and Everybody Loves Raymond - that is, if there
was even a TV where I was going. Worse, it was September and the sun
didn't go down until eight thirty. I remember laying down to bed and
hearing these little kids playing on the beach in the distance.

Sigh.

Oh guess what? She supplied me with a stupid t-shirt with a sleepy
teddy bear on the front in a night shirt and cap. He is curling up to
sleep on a sliver of a moon. Pretty slick huh? I would wear that to
bed with training pants and these lovely frosted white rubber pants
over top. It was better than the diaper, but not much.

The next morning Claire woke me up rather than the other way around -
it was ridiculously early. I am in the middle of this dream where I
was applying at CSIS (Canadian Security Intelligence Service - think
CIA, but polite) and I am in this little office and the interview is
going very well. I want to do field work, I want to be a spy. They
seem impressed by my enthusiasm and by my answers. They hand me my
very own official CSIS trench coat to put on. Yards of it are dragging
on the floor at my feet. The man and woman team interviewing me look
at each other and shake their heads discouragingly.

The woman then gets an idea, "Lindsey, we just started this new pilot
project you would be perfect for."

"Yeh? What is it?"

"Well, you ever see 21 Jump Street?"

"Oh yes, launched the career of Johnny Depp, and for Peter De
Louise...not so much." I say.

The male agent interrupted with a sigh, "Isn't Depp dreamy?"

I shrugged. "So this is like high school undercover type thing."

"Close," the woman said. "There has been an incredible amount of theft
of school supplies - a rash of it, we cannot explain it."

"Chalk, actually" the male agent said. "Pretty much, just chalk."

"Yes, well chalk is considered school supplies, David." The female
agent said coolly.

"Don't start with me Rachel," David replies.

"I wouldn't if you weren't such a...." she stopped mid-sentence
frustrated.

"Such a what? Go on Rachel say it, I know you want to..."

"Um, excuse me," I said. Both of them turned their attention back to
me. "This job, I am looking for who it is stealing chalk right?"

"Right," David said.

"And any other school supplies that go missing," Rachel said.


"You just couldn't drop it, could you Rachel?" David asked.

"Oh go run off and cry like you always do you pansy!" Rachel snarled
at him.

"Fine, fine" David sniffled and ran out of the room covering his face.

"Excuse me? My job?" I asked.

"Yes, sure, sure...okay we'll start you out in Ms. Roberts grade two
class..."

That is as far as I got before Aunt Claire woke me up. 

After a breakfast of soggy cereal and giving me yet another nifty new
outfit to wear over training and rubber pants ("It's a long drive,
Kiddo") we were packed up and in her rental car. She buckled me into
my seat and asked, "Hey kiddo, how much you weigh?"

"Why?"

"Because your Auntie wants to know - how much?"

"63 pounds."

She seemed to make a mental note of it but never told me why. The five
hour drive to Victoria felt like ten. She took turns talking to me
about Ontario and talking to her digital Dictaphone about some case
involving tariffs in Chile and Canadian shipping or some such thing.
We would stop for an early lunch in Nanaimo - she ordered for me off
the kids menu.

In Victoria we checked into the Executive House hotel - a moderately
expensive - moderately comfortable establishment where you didn't pay
quite so much for the tourist charm like the Empress across the street
which oozed Britannia.

Turns out she had already booked a hair appointment at her old salon
in this funky little place in Market Square. Ever see "Bird on a
Wire"? Mel Gibson, Goldie Hawn, 1990? That film was made in Victoria.
The scene where Mel is with Goldie and they are running from cops and
end up at this little hair salon where Mel in one of his previous
lives was a hair dresser - well that is the salon where Claire gets
her hair done - only at the time the movie was made, it wasn't a salon
at all. It was empty office space. They built the salon for the movie
and then a couple hair dressers bought the place. Anyway, that is
where she had her appointment and that is where she took me. We walked
the eight blocks or so, she held my hand, tugging me close whenever I
doddled too much. I hoped to hell I wouldn't see anyone I recognized.

Claire made two appointments it seems. I got a hair cut too. The
teenage girl who washed my hair talked to me like I was a four year
old. When she was done she said, "What a brave boy you are," and led
me to the chair. Claire was in the chair next to me.

"So what are we thinking?" The hair dresser asked.
"A lot shorter I said," but as soon as I said it I realized the hair
dresser had asked Claire, not me.

"I like the length, just clean it up a little," Claire instructed.

I sat quietly as Claire entertained these two guys she seemed to know
pretty well. They all shared a back story - probably from years of
getting her hair done here before she moved to Vancouver. When Claire
was not in monster mode, she could actually be quite sociable - she
was never this way around me so it was a bit unnerving to see.

When I was done I thought I looked a bit like Rickey Schroeder a' la
1980's Little Lord Fauntleroy, or even the first few seasons of Silver
Spoons - okay I didn't, but my hair did. Claire was very impressed.
Me? Not so much.

We had room service for dinner and she found some harmless children's
programming for me to watch while she worked some more. Is this
healthy? At 7:30 I was in bed trying to sleep through her typing.
Every time I rolled over and tried to get comfortable, with the
gathers of those god awful rubber pants digging into my thighs, she
would tell me to close my eyes.

This brings you up to my banner day I mentioned awhile back. Remember?
Great, you are still paying attention. I know it can be difficult as I
tend to ramble on sometimes, get side tracked by movie trivia and
weird dreams, or sometimes, like now, go on and on apologizing for my
narrative style. I apologize...

Ahem.

I'll start at about eight a.m.. I am sitting on the edge of the hotel
bed still dressed as I was for bed and we are having another "talk".
Much like the last one, my part in the "talking" would be minimal.
This talk was not as long, with fewer topics to be covered, so it was
not billed as "big".

She had been giving it some thought, and came to the conclusion that
it was best if I did not tell people my age. She dreaded the first
instance she would have to explain it all to someone. I think she was
afraid she would come off sounding bad and would have to defend
herself by telling them my checked past - this was long and
complicated. Intead, it was better for me not to discuss my age, and
if anyone asked (adults frequently do this assuming a child's age is
something all kids are dying to talk about) I was to say I was five.

"You want me to lie Auntie?" I was taking the moralistic stance. She
was after all, an agent of the law, justice, truth, all that. Could
she be disbarred for making me lie? Probably not, but I thought I
might look it up nonetheless.

"It's only a mathematical lie - it is still a generous behavioral
truth." She said.

I tried to wrap my little brain around that one. "Huh?"

"You may not be five years old in years Lindsey, but you act like one,
so it is still a half-truth, and that, in this case, will be fine."

We were to be flying out of Victoria that morning. She gave me a
lecture about how airports are busy, dangerous places and that I
needed to be on my absolute best behavior. The "or else" was implied.

After running a bath for me she laid out my clothes for the day. The
expression "You gotta be kidding" came to mind. Today's ensemble
included a white t-shirt with baby blue piping around the short
sleeves and collar and a pair of light blue denim bib over-alls. On
the top left of the bib in gold, red, navy blue and white alternating
thread was embroidered the letters "l-i-n-d-s-e-y" in a child-like san
serif font, all lower case. This was charming. Sitting on the bathroom
counter under this stack of clothes was a new pair of training pants
the characters from Disney's Aladdin in the front panel, and a pair of
rubber pants for over top.

When I came out from the bathroom dressed, she seemed very impressed.
"Don't you look handsome kiddo," she said.

"Auntie, do I have to wear these rubber pants, they crinkle when I
walk." I asked - stupid question I know.

"Yes Lindsey, any more questions?"

"No Auntie."

"Good," she said smugly. "Wrist?"

I looked at her confused. She rolled her eyes and took my left arm.
She wrapped around my wrist a white leather felt-lined strap which was
secured with Velcro and a snap. Hanging from it was a little plastic
clip. I looked up at her, my face expressing all kind of confusion and
concern. "Yes I know kiddo, you probably won't like this. Perhaps if
you didn't try and run from me the other day I might not even think it
necessary."

She clipped onto the plastic clasp about a four foot "tether" as she
called it. I would call it a leash.

"Oh, no please Auntie, not this," I pleaded.

"Oh shush, it's not that bad."

Easy for her to say, she's not the one wearing it.


"I promise I won't run off, I will stay close, I promise." I continued
my fruitless pleading.

"Stop it!" she said getting angry. "Knock it off, quit acting like a
two year old. Act your age"

"Which one?" I wondered. I thought better of asking though.

 She continued, "Be glad you are not wearing one of those full toddler
harnesses. I almost got one of those instead but I am a softy."

"Yeh, a softy," I thought to myself. 


Mortified to the point of numbness, we checked out of the hotel, me on
the "tether," and drove to Victoria International Airport. Claire had
this Air Canada platinum flyers type card thing which provoked all
kinds of sucking up from the ticket agent. They never even asked to
see my identification. I considered typing a letter to the FAA or
whoever governed Canada's skies. After the bags were checked, the
ticket agent, Angela, leaned over to me and said, "Hi Lindsey" giving
me one of those, "what a cute puppy/kitten/ child" kind of grins.

"Hi," I muttered. Best I could do.

We would have connecting flights and would have to stop in Calgary for
an hour. Claire didn't unclip my little "tether" until I was buckled
into my seat on the plane. She gave me a pencil and this puzzle book
to work on once we were airborne. I was thinking I was pretty darn
smart as I went through this thing, until I closed it, and on the
cover it said "Ages 4 - 7". Suddenly the one puzzle I didn't figure
out really, really bothered me. Don't laugh, it was hard, I swear. I
can't believe they put it in there - "ages 4 - 7" my rubber clad ass!
- they are sadists these puzzle book publishers. I can see them
hunched over their desks laughing maniacally, knowing that when the
kid can't figure it out he/she will take it to their parents to get
the answer and the parents will be stumped. They would be totally
humiliated that they are stumped by a child's puzzle book. I
considered writing a letter of complaint, but I already had a letter
to the Canadian Bar Association and the FAA ahead of it on the "to do"
list. I knew I would probably never get around to it.

Calgary International Airport on a leash - I don't recommend it. Oh
sorry, a "tether," silly me. We had to walk a ways to get to our gate,
right through the main concourse of the airport. Every time I start to
doddle, I get to sharp tugs on the "tether" to get my attention. And
people were looking, no staring at me. Calgarians had never seen such
a thing as me, I was a novelty, the chubby sissy kid named Lindsey on
a leash - it will be legendary, people will talk of my visit for years
to come.

Claire is looking at the gawkers with disdain. She is thinking, "I am
being a responsible parent here - don't come running to complain to me
when your little brat runs off and ends up on a flight to Syria" - or
something like that.
And then there was a woman approaching us, a kindred spirit. She had a
son in one of those famed full toddler harness things - the kid looked
to be about three. Claire smiled to the mother and the mother smiled
back. Me and the kid, we looked at each other uneasily, neither of us
sure what the etiquette was in a situation like this. We didn't know
if we were supposed to avoid eye contact, or sniff at each other's
butts or something.

We are to be landing in London in, oh about ten minutes time. Our tray
tables are closed and our seats are in the full and upright position.
The closer we get to London, the further my past seems to me. Those
women - it seems so long ago that I start to wonder if that was even
me - maybe it was something I saw in a movie or read in a book or
something.

As the wheels touch down and I feel gravity reassert itself, I feel
for the first time the full weight of my new life. Before I got here,
there was a sense that somehow this would all be over in a matter of
hours, that this was a big joke to teach me a lesson, or just a bad
dream and I would soon wake up. But now, now we are beyond all that. I
called Claire's bluff and it turns out she had all the aces.


Stay tuned...Chapter 4 coming soon


Please direct any comments, complaints, unbridled praise, death
threats etc. to

lindsey.k@sympatico.ca

http://viewfrombelow.tripod.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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