Shalom Camenietzki

Once at home, I help him out of his coat and into his bed. I set a kettle of water to boil, then take off his disintegrating grey shoes. His pink heels and pallid toes shine through the huge holes in his socks; I swab his dirty toes and heels with Vaseline to prevent frostbites. After all he has done for me, especially the literary passions he inspired over decades, my fussing over his well being is just a drop in the bucket. Hug for hug, kiss for kiss, kind words for kind words, remember?

I concede: the slightest insecurity or suspicion is enough to overpower my reasoning and common-sense; letting go of my upsets and fears is a prolonged, gruelling process. But once I feel attached to friends, or to helpful figures like Peter Bradley and Mrs. Palmer, I'm as loyal as a Doberman Pinscher.

Fifteen hours a week I make a few loonies under the table. It’s an easy way to supplement my meagre income and to fit into a corrupt world dominated by bankers, bureaucrats, and power-hungry lawyers turned politicians. The extra work still leaves me plenty of time to work on my essay on bioanalysis and other projects. But on account of my character—some would say my biology—my days are regimented. Mornings, I compare paragraphs from the Star with the stuff in the Globe, since, deep down, I don’t trust either. (Media people are just as corrupt and insincere as bosses; they might be trusted only twelve years after they barfed their last words.) When I'm not rewriting a paragraph, I patrol the city parks in search of Jack, or watch subtitled movies. From outside shopwindows I spy on fine book stores; like Moses, I'll never set my feet inside the Promised Land—pleasurably reading books from cover to cover.