Sienna skies

The Three: a story from my childhood

When I was a kid, oh maybe 8 years old or so, my mom won tickets to an Arts Club show off the radio. It was probably tickets for four, but it was clear that on a week night, it would only ever be for three. The count was mom, child and child, and that was three.

I remember hopping out of the car, slick wet pavement under me, wondering what exciting theatre we would get to see at Granville Island! As a kid, the supermarket was the excitement of the week, and evening outings past 8pm was very special indeed. And this was well past 8 o’clock in the evening. This started at 9.

I strictly recall the slick pavement, wet from the hazy rain that paints our city stars and sparkles at night. When the halo glaze of the street lights tinge and glow off the black concrete. At 8 years old, night time was the forbidden space of fairies, intoxicated grown ups, and sparkley street lamps painting pavement. It did not belong to the child.

As we walked up in line, I recall the slight frown on my mother’s face. The slight parting of the lips and darting of the eyes, and craning of the neck. Her uncertainty though was never wrought more apparent than in the hard grip she held on our little hands, pulling us through the line of grownups dressed in black, fur, and hats.

Approaching the entrance, the looming shadows of the hallway began to creep around us. Holding our hands tight, my mom led us through the narrow corridors, shrinking under laughing bodies, silk rubbing elbows, knees, men hovering wine glasses above our heads. My brother’s eyes wide with knowing. Handing over the tickets, my mother’s hands white and stiff, she continued through the rows of seats, finding ours snug off centre and crowded.

I remember twisting myself around to take off my jacket, and noticed only big heads, tall and brooding. My brother and I were the only small heads in the room. I wondered. My mother did too.

As the lights dimmed, I asked my mom what we were seeing. She shrugged an unknowing shrug, fixing our coats to the chair as she did this. I knew it was comedy, so laughter was expected. The billboard said a comedy, a man’s name on the billboard with “stand up” in the title. Though honestly, looking back on it, it’s clear that my mother did not know this, nor we.

The heavy red curtain began to part. Lights descended and a man did appear. Though no tigers or circus dancers did. A sort of disappointment came over me. It was not a funny act after all. He greeted the crowd with a gesture, a chuckle, the sort of thing stand up comedians do when they’ve been on the road for months, and the liquor they just downed off stage sort of refluxes back up to the sound of a chuckle – it’s not.

Sometimes, I wish I had noticed my mother some more that night. Looked over at her face to see what she looked liked, though I know well now what she felt.

The man on the stage began his jokes. They were not funny. Not for an 8 year old, nor a 10 year old, nor a 36 year old asian woman who won four tickets from the radio to see a comedy show. The man on the stage was going through his motions, regurgitating his lines, and flinging profanity around the room like they were biscuits. Some people caught them in their mouths, giggling at it, laughing at it, choking on it. I looked awkwardly at my mother, who was slowly feeling the cloud of obscenity hovering over her.

My brother, seated next to me, found courage to giggle a little, though oddly not at the forbidden words that neither was funny, nor sarcastic, or appropriate. The man energetically delivered his punches, swiping each child, my brother and I in the eye each time. Boom, left punch! Boom, right punch! Boom, and the c*nt comes out and an upper cut to the poor children’s beautiful angelic faces. We were numb.

I don’t blame my mother, she would have never known. But she knew 30 minutes in that it was a sad mistake. But the seats were too close, and the people were too drunk, and she was too afraid to drag her two little kids out of the theatre that never should of let them in, in the first place. She sat there, mumbling a short, ” There’s so much cussing.” Arms wrapped around her children’s coats, watching the crowd, watching her kids, holding her breath, waiting for the lights to come on.

Another 15 minutes dear mom before that happens.

And yet again, as the comedy continued, a throw to the left cheek, a toss to the right, “the whore”, “f*cking and sh*tting” all over the place! “Sex, vagina monologues, balls, and butts” flung here to and there to, until my mother was sitting dizzy, ensnarled in guilt and embarrassment. She wasn’t a bad mother. No, she was a fantastic one.

When the man on the stage was done berating his wife and his penis, the heavy red drapes, now smeared with children’s shock and awe began to draw close. Wearily like a wounded doe, my mother gathered us up and pushed us out of the tiny theatre, catching her breath along the way – out, out, out.

And when we were out of that place, I looked up at my mother, to show her we were ok. She blinked, and I saw, a clear drop of regret hanging off her cheek.

My brother and I held her hands tightly as the street lights descended on us, casting us luminous as we walked.

I strictly recall the slick pavement, wet from the hazy rain that paints our city stars and sparkles at night. When the halo glaze of the street lights tinge and glow off black concrete. At 8 years old, night time was the forbidden space of fairies, intoxicated grown ups, and sparkley street lamps painting pavement. It did not belong to the child.

It did not belong to my mother, either.