A Distant Star

I’ve been friendly with my neighbourhood dry cleaner guy for years, since the days of pushing my children around in their strollers. Longer than that, even.

He’s not exactly my dry cleaner – he’s everyone’s. But I don’t use the service very often, especially these days. Suit pants are now saved for fancy days and funerals, and there are none of these to attend now anyway. The far-reaching affect of The Now Times is amazing to me, and I feel so worried about all my merchants and service people everywhere.​

His name means “a distant star.” I know, because I looked it up once. He smells like cologne and cigarette smoke, and neither of these offend me. He’s become such a familiar connection in my life, I realise, and I’ve noticed his absence.

Whenever I meet this man, I dig through my memories of past conversations with him, and ask him how his mother is doing, and if his knee is better now, and how did that recipe turn out that time. He always answers with enthusiasm, buoyed by faith. When things are good, he says, “Thanks, god” at the end of his sentences. Like punctuation.

Outside of this, he speaks in philosophical ways about the world at large, and though we speak English together, his phrases are peppered with Arabic, and he sometimes goes on long tangents in French, which he knows I don’t speak well, but all the while his eyes are flashing. He makes a lot of gestures with his hands.

And he hugs me a lot. He squeezes me and pats me on the back several times. Kisses me, not the customary Montreal two-cheeks way, but often three times, which is the way of Europe. And maybe the desert, too. Sometimes he tries to kiss me a little closer to the mouth than he ought to, but it’s all just part of how we do. I have no fear of this man. He is a seer and a protector, proper.

I am almost always pleased to see him when we run into each other on the street. He has a broad, open face with wide-set eyes, and a wide mouth with full lips to match. He reminds me of smooth clay, and our exchanges are always more than pleasant. They’re nurturing. They actually feed me. 

But there are times when I almost dread running into him. Because he sees me. He can see how I’m feeling without me saying a single word, which is unnerving when you’re trying to steel your face for the public, just trying to go about your day. And anyway, we hardly know each other, really.

But I cannot hide from him, no matter how I try.

I met him on the street one time, the day after our dog died, and I hadn’t been crying or anything, but as soon as he finished hugging me, he took a step back and asked, What is it? His eyes searched mine for the truth. He always asks this with an emphasis on “it” with his inflection rising at the end. He enunciates every “T” he utters. I told him about Charley, and how awful it was to watch the vet inject my poor pup with the stuff to take him out of his old-and-sick-dog misery as I held him in my arms. He just looked into my eyes mirroring back all my sadness, nodding. He said something in Arabic that felt true and wise, and he hugged me again. Kissed my cheeks three times.

In the earlier days of the lockdown, when I was making a mental tally of the all the people I was missing in my periphery, I felt a bit glad I hadn’t run into him. I was afraid if I did, I’d burst into tears on the spot as we spoke.

But the other day as I strolled down the street, I thought I heard my name being called, so I turned to sniff the air…. and there he was, walking after me. I took my earphones all the way down to rest on my neck so I could engage him properly.

I felt his warm smile envelop me from a distance, and smiled right back. I smelled his familiar scent from six feet away. I hadn’t seen him in over three months, certainly.

How are you, he asked, smiling.

Happy to see you, I answered, returning a smile.

He looked right into my face, craning his neck a little closer, and he shifted to his right, staring right into my eyes for a moment too long, the way he does, and then he drew back and gave me a quick once-over, unblinking.

You are thin, he said. It wasn’t a judgement – just an observation.

I toddled my hand, comme ci-comme ca, and murmured something about summer weight, not meeting his grey-green eyes.

He made a dismissive clicking sound with his mouth, and tossed his hand up in the air. He saw my wilted, sad self, as I knew without a doubt he would. He sees me. 

What is it?

Oh, you know. Everything is terrible. For everyone. But, I’m still grateful for all things. 

I gave him a tight smile, and hoped my eyes weren’t watering. He said, Of course, always grateful, thanks, god.

No hugging anymore, I said wistfully.

Alors, ma Cherie, he started, but then said something complicated in his mixed French and Arabic. It’s been years since I’ve asked him to repeat something so I can understand. I like to think I absorb the gist. He’s always friendly and well-meaning, I know. And he’s always smiling.So, what will you do, he asked. It wasn’t a question about my excursion, or the next few hours. He was asking about my insides. I know how he talks.Me? I go onwards, I guess… make dinner… eat something delicious. I said it with a shrug, but I wondered if I sounded more distant than I meant to.

He peered into my eyes again with intention and said, Be beautiful. Have a good life, my darling. He beamed his wide, shining smile at me, and I felt so glad for it. I made myself smile back so big he could see all my teeth.

Even our weak connections can be fortifying. Sometimes it is good to be seen.

And, I reckon it’s always good therapy to smile as much as you can.