On warm, summer evenings – who am I kidding – even sometimes in the dead of winter, I'll send Jack over to the neighbours around cocktail hour with strict instructions to 'look really hungry and stare at their food like you haven't eaten in weeks'. Our neighbour is an incredible cook, although calling him a cook is a bit of an insult – he's more of a gourmet. Over there, even on weeknights, they have things like meat and real risotto and asparagus wrapped in pig's foreskin with sprigs of rosemary, and shit like that. He used to make rich sauces and gravy but since his bypass surgery, meals are more heart friendly, but still delicious, and one hell of a lot better than what's normally cooking on this side of the alleyway.
Last weekend, Jack didn't even have to suck in his gut and look all weak, because the neighbours were ordering take-out and since we were standing drooling in their backyard around 6 o'clock, they kind of had to ask us if we wanted to join them.
Of course, I said "Yes, can we have Thai" and was instantly excited on a variety of levels. Not only was I starving, and thirsty, but Jack's cousin Sarah told me she had a craving for Thai food recently and when the delivery guy arrived he was a transvestite. This I had to see. Besides, I never get to eat Thai, or Indian, or Szechuan, because my little roomie, Beige Food refuses to try anything, unless of course he's eating at the neighbours.
My real craving had less to do with Thai and more about me needing an injection of spice in my life. The kind of spice a jolly tranny normally brings to the table. I was imagining six-inch heels, a big blonde wig, fishnet stockings and an Adam's apple, or maybe a Marilyn or Liza look-a-like. I could barely wait for Divine or Dame Edna to ring the damn doorbell.
Of course by the time the bell rang, I had everyone else all hopped up on hope and possibilities, and we politely took turns pretending it was perfectly normal to be hanging around in the foyer offering to hold the food and make change and stuff.
Can I just tell right now you how disappointed I was.
The delivery transvestite was a look-a-like alright. Only he looked like a younger version of me: Tired. No make up. Mom jeans. Sensible shoes. Boring glasses. Hair, cut in a bit of a bob, but thinning a bit which is not like me, I have lots of hair and look like Captain Kangaroo in a bob. And while he, er, she, had lovely breasts that looked liked helium balloons they were so high, and accentuated by a tight black top – there wasn't even a hint of cleavage or tassels or sparkles or anything. Not a studded, red leather bustier in sight. Maybe she was having a bad day or saves all his nice, glam clothes for when she goes out or maybe he didn't want to get her feather boa covered in Pad Thai, but he really looked like she needed a makeover.
And a hug.
My hopes for seeing a robust, flamboyant transvestite belting out show tunes were crushed. All I got was somebody's son at the door, trying to make a living and figure out who he wants to be in this cruel world. Jesus, even the transvestites in this city are a drag.
I started thinking about the delivery boy's Mom and how worried she must be, and how kids break your heart without even trying because you love them so much you want everything in their little world to be perfect and happy. There I was, all verklempt because Jack is a goalie in a growth spurt, but imagine if deep down, he really wanted to be a goalie on the girl's ringette team. Or a synchronized swimmer. I would want him to be happy even if that meant lopping off any hope of ever having grandchildren. Wouldn't I?
Fuck, I was so sad, I could barely eat that third helping of green curry.
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
Halifax has a few good Thai joints. There's Chabaa, Baan Thai, Ginger Grass, and I just drove by one on Barrington Street called Talay Thai. I am pretty sure they all deliver, but don't get your hopes up.
