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  . . .

  The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, mosdy with me going around the building, massaging egos and putting out fires. If I'm ever going to become an assistant production assistant, then this is the way forward.

  I got back to jPod around seven, and my message light was blinking, so it had to be Mom or Dad. Dad said, "Ethan, it's five to seven. Call me the moment you get this."

  I called him.

  "Thank frigging God," Dad said. "Get over here."

  "What's going on?"

  "Just come, right now."

  "Did Mom find out about. . . ?"

  "No. Just get over here."

  And so I drove to the house. Dad's car was in the carport, and there was a small silver Suzuki Sidekick parked out front, which I assumed belonged to Ellen, as every single woman I've ever met who does set-dec work in film drives one of these things or something similar. I parked behind it, only to see Ellen walk across the lawn towards the creek, naked. Dad opened the door.

  "Ethan—help me grab her."

  "I'm not touching her, Dad."

  "She's high as ten kites."

  "It doesn't matter."

  Before she fell into the creek and cracked her skull, Dad headed across the grass and lifted her up like a set of heavy golf clubs. "Upsy-daisy." Ellen kept moving her limbs as if she was still walking, which was more than slighdy disturbing. He carried her in the front door, yelling over his shoulder, "She went downstairs and took the biggest bud off The Dude. Smoked the whole frigging thing."

  "Oh shit. How are you going to explain that to Mom?" Ellen had mutilated Mom's favourite and oldest plant, called The Dude, even though it's a female.

  "You tell me. I'm screwed." I followed him down the hall to Greg's old room.

  "Ellen and I stopped by to get my Abraham Lincoln hat for my audition, which was set for six o'clock. I gave her a tour of the basement, and then the phone rang, and by the time I got back downstairs—powl—she's baked, and there goes my Abe Lincoln role, stupid bitch. So I laid her down on your brother's bed so I could figure out what to do next, which was when I called you. Next thing, I look out the front window, and she's off sleepwalking towards the Brodies' breakfast nook." Dad was slipping a T-shirt and a pair of sweat bottoms onto Ellen, who was moaning. "Where's your mother?" asked Dad.

  "No idea. She came out to visit me at work today."

  "She what?"

  "Exacdy. She said she wanted to see where I work."

  "Why would she do that}"

  Just then we heard Mom's car pull into the carport. Dad looked at me. "Ellen's your new girlfriend. End of story." We hightailed it to the kitchen.

  From the back door, I heard, "Ethan? Is that you?"

  She came into the kitchen. "Oh hi, dear. Didn't get enough of me at work today, huh?"

  "I just thought I'd come see how you guys are doing."

  Both of them were squinting at me, wondering if I was about to blow their secrets. I glanced at Dad. "I also have a new girlfriend, and I thought I'd introduce her to you."

  "A new girlfriend? Finally—the possibility of grandchildren."

  "I also have bad news for you, Mom."

  "... Oh?" At this point, bad news could mean many things. "Like what?"

  "I showed Ellen your business downstairs, and she picked a bud off The Dude."

  "She what?"

  "It happened before I could say anyth—"

  "Ethan, you know how I feel about The Dude. And I was trying to get a nice shape back to her after all the clones I made this season." She sat down heavily in a kitchen chair.

  Dad said, "Kids. All they do is wreck stuff."

  "Where is your new girlfriend, dear?"

  "She's in Greg's old bedroom."

  "Why?"

  "She's kind of baked."

  "So let me guess, then—she smoked the bud?"

  "Kinda."

  "Ethan, how could'you go out with a druggie? Did she steal my earrings, too? Should I check my jewellery to make sure it's all there?"

  "You're making too big a deal of this, Mom. It was a first date. Last date, too."

  Mom stood up and began removing dinner ingredients from the fridge and freezer. She turned around. "You know what, dear? I don't want to see your girlfriend or know her name. This is your get-out-of-jail-free card. Just pack her up and take her away. I think we've all learned our lesson for the day."

  Dad turned to me. "Ungrateful litde bastard." He winked. "Come on, I'll help you get her to the car."

  Dad and I lugged Ellen out to her car, plunking her in the back seat along with a one-third-empty box of Dad's headshots, which he made me promise to drop off at his agent's. He wrote down Ellen's address. "Just park it in her garage. When she wakes up, she'll figure things out."

  "What about me?"

  "Oh, right." He reached into his pocket. "Here's a twenty. Take a cab, but keep the receipt, as I can claim it on taxes."

  So I drove Ellen to her condo in Kitsilano, not far from the beach, and put her inside on her bed. I cabbed to pick up my car, then finally got home to my dishevelled but lovable three-storey dump in Chinatown. When I got the door open, a wave of relief flooded me. I could have a long bath and forget turdes and bodies and Steve and Dad and Ellen and . . .

  I turned on the light to find maybe twenty stick-thin Chinese people huddled on my floor: men, women and children. I dropped my keys and turned around, only to bump into my brother.

  "Greg, what the hell's going on in there?"

  "Chill out. They're friends of mine. I just needed a place to put them for a few hours."

  "What do you mean, friends? They look like refugees."

  "They are refugees."

  "What the hell are you doing with—refuge? And in my place, too."

  "I owe a friend a favour."

  "What kind of friend is that?"

  "Stop acting like a little girl. They're only here for a few hours, and then they ship out."

  "I—" Words failed me. Meanwhile, I looked at the refugees. "
Shit, Greg. I gave you a copy of my key for emergencies. Don't get me caught up in your weird business shit. And why aren't you in Hong Kong? Mom said you were in Hong Kong."

  "I told them not to touch any surface or object, and trust me, they won't." The refugees looked at Greg in a way that said he was alpha dog, and not to be crossed.

  "There, look—they're not even sitting on your furniture."

  "What's that smell?"

  Greg barked a question in Mandarin, and a woman replied.

  "They've been shitting in a cardboard box off the kitchen. They didn't know how the toilet worked."

  "Get them out of here now, or I phone the government."

  Greg turned frosty on me. "That's not something that's going to happen, Ethan."

  "Wait a second. These people aren't really refugees, are they?"

  "That depends how you define 'refugee.' And if you mean 'noble fellow world citizens searching for a better life on a new continent'—"

  "Greg, you're people-smuggling."

  "Keep your voice down. I'm not the one who's people-smuggling. My friend, Kam Fong, is the, uh, businessman here. He messed up a connection, and I owed him one."

  "How did they get here?"

  "A truck dropped them off six hours ago."

  "You're the world's biggest asshole."

  "Ethan, it was either that or have my real estate licence revoked. Kam Fong is well connected."

  "Kam Fong? Isn't that the name of the guy who played Steve McGarrett's sidekick on Hawaii Five-0}"

  "It is. Isn't that a gas?"

  "Have these people had anything to eat in the past week?"

  "What am I—a flight attendant? How should I know?"

  "They have to eat something. They're so skinny."

  "I'd order pizzas, but all that dairy's not a good idea."

  "Where are they from?"

  "Fujian Province, northern China."

  I went online to search for takeout. Stir-fried clams, lychee nuts, squid with pineapple, prawns, crab, whelks and radishes. "Okay, ass­hole brother, you're spending ten bucks apiece for dinner for everyone here."

  "Ten bucks?"

  "Either that, or I call the RCMP."

  Greg went to pick up the food, and I orchestrated a hygiene pageant. Two weeks in the hold of a container ship leaves the modern traveller a bit. . . fragrant. I got a conga line going in and out of the shower, and I put their dirty clothing in the washer and gave them my own clothes to wear. The hot water ran out quickly, but nobody seemed to mind. I felt like Elliott from E. T. handing out Reese's Pieces.

  Greg came back an hour later carrying a Santa's toy sack worth of Chinese food, and he was surprised to see them all in their new duds. "Check out the makeover," he said. "It's like casual Friday at the Asian Studies department of a Midwestern university."

  "Just put out the food."

  He did, and a feeding frenzy ensued. "Jesus, Ethan, just look at these guys chow down."

  "Greg, what or when was the last time these people ate—a dead seagull somewhere off the coast of Guam?"

  "Relax."

  "How can you be a part of this? It's just—inconceivable you'd get wrapped up in it."

  "Don't be so self-righteous. The people in this room probably made the shoes on your feet, the computer you just turned on, the glass in the windows, the light bulb in that lamp, and just about everything else in here. It's okay if these people are across the ocean in a sweatshop working for fifty-nine cents a day, but heaven help us if we have to actually deal with them in real time in our part of the world."

  "Your social conscience is making me teary."

  "Look, I sell Vancouver condominiums to global pirates from Hong Kong or Taiwan who need a crash pad if China goes ballistic. And tonight it was either bring these folks to your place, or let them starve and shit themselves in a Maersk shipping container over by the Second Narrows. Don't be so pissed off. Here—" He handed me a wad of twenties. "Let them keep your old clothing. You go buy some new stuff."

  "I can't take this money." I turned around and gave the pile of twenties to a scrawny young guy wearing my Nine Inch Nails FRAGILITY V. 2.0 tour shirt. "Take one and pass it along." He quickly caught my gist.

  The doorbell rang, and everybody stopped as if a DVD's PAUSE had just been hit. Greg answered—it was one of Kam Fong's henchmen. He and Greg had a whispered argument. When it was over, the henchman motioned the Chinese out of the house and into the truck. Aside from the food trash (two dozen completely licked-clean paper plates) and a cardboard box full of shit outside the back kitchen door, it was as if the place had never seen a soul. Greg said, "Okay, then, you're right, this was a pretty big imposition on you. Let me pay you back."

  "How?"

  He looked around my place. "Ethan, your furniture is total crap. I'll have Kelly from my office send you some pieces left over from our display suites."

  "I don't want or need new furniture."

  "Don't be stupid. Your furniture is college-grade, and you're pushing thirty. Collectively it spells out L-O-S-E-R."

  "My furniture isn't crap. At least my place doesn't look like I ordered the whole thing from a Delta Airlines SkyMall catalogue."

  "Gee, that one sure stung. How are Mom and Dad?"

  "Busy."

  "I'm off."

  After I closed the door behind me, I went to the washer and took out the first big load of smuggling-wear—cheesecloth-thin knit shirts too flimsy to buff a car with—profoundly depressing—and I wondered what I was going to wear now.

  I put the wet clothes into the dryer, and an hour later, as I removed them, I got to thinking of how you'll sometimes be at a friend's place, and they loan you a jacket or sweater, and how extra-great those garments are to wear because they come with a pre-built aura—and how you even sometimes plan on keeping the sweater or whatever because suddenly it feels so . . .yours.

  I picked a shirt from the laundry basket of Downy-soft clothes. Voila! My new look.

  Within an hour I was asleep.

  . . .

  The next day in jPod, Bree and Cowboy saw me in my smuggling-wear. "Dig the threads, Ethan. Begging for spare change at stop­lights?"

  "It's—a long story. Where's John Doe?"

  "He went out last night to tag grain cars with some guys from IT and never came back. Hey, word has it that corporate really loves the idea of the turde character based on beloved reality TV show host Jeff Probst."

  I grabbed an apple granola bar and a banana in the snack room, and then sat down at my desk. I needed to somehow put the day into focus. I decided to research the life and career of Jeff Probst, host of TV's long-running reality TV hit Survivor, as well as . . . well, just see for yourself:

  Jeff was born on November 4, 1962, and began his career in the early 1990s, bringing us laughter and song as a VH1 veejay. From there, Jeff became host of the informative mirth fest that is VH1's Rock & roll jeopardy!, but only after he'd hosted and made guest appearances on many network TV shows. Yet it was as himself, "Jeff Probst," that Jeff entered our collective hearts as the crusty but fair host of the long-running king of reality shows, Survivor. There, Jeff outplayed, outlasted and outwitted all of the naysayers and doom-mongers, and showed us that with pluck, fortitude and a honey bronze tan, one can be both God and the devil, choosing the next soul from the hinterlands to be catapulted into exciting millennium-style fame—and a higher tax bracket!

  FUN FACT: Jeff is an accomplished director of art house films. His2001 thriller, Finder's Fee, netted Jeff awards for Best Picture and Best Director at the Seattle International Film Festival. First step Seattle—next stop ... the world!

  Bree saw that I was researching Jeff Probst. "Hmmm. I wonder if Jeff Probst has his own specific kryptonite—something that makes him self-destruct."

  "What makes Jeff blow up? Bad room service. Or players who quit the game before the game tosses them out."

  Bree asked me what my own kryptonite was.

  "That's easy—meetings
. Yours?"

  "Microsoft press releases."

  We looked at some JPEGs of Jeff. "If Jeff were a turde, he'd be on the side of the forces of good, right?"

  "Can skateboard games embody morality?"

  "I don't think so."

  The fluorescent lights flickered for one hundredth of a second, which told us that the render farm a floor up had kicked into operation for the night. "Have you looked in the snack room lately?" I asked.

  Bree said, "I never go there. Vegan."

  "I forgot. Did you know we have an entire Frigidaire stand-up model dedicated only to condiments and spreads?"

  "Huh?"

  "Kraft Golden Italian Dressing, gallon-sized, Adams Peanut Butter, HP Sauce, marmalade, Annie's Natural Raspberry Vinaigrette . . ."

  "How do you remember all that shit?"

  "Brain wiring. I've always been able to remember brand names."

  "I have this theory about smart people. If you're smart, you're either the only person in your family who's smart, or everybody in the family is smart. No in-between."

  I considered this. "I think I come from the everybody's smart category. But they don't apply their smarts to . . . largerpicture pursuits. That includes me."

  "My sister works at the World Bank," Bree said. "My older brother's finding a cure for Alzheimer's, and my younger brother played viola at the White House two years ago. They all have trouble with me and gaming."

  There was an awkward moment as the two of us considered our lives from a long-term perspective. Then Bree said, "You know, if the company wants to get better work out of the staff, they should follow Jeff's unwritten laws from Survivor."

  "Like what?"

  "They should starve us. Starved contestants make for better shows, always, so it might make for a more zestful office lifestyle as well. Management could leave botdes of Scotch along the hallways here, like Mario coins. Booze could really loosen us all up. Let's face the truth—drunk people are more fun, and they're much better at telling the truth than sober people."

  "And we should be able to vote one person out of the company every single day, so that there'd be all these massive intrigues as everybody tries to figure out who's ganging up on who."

  "Forget about our office for a second. Do you know what they ought to do on the real Survivor} They should forget about the tropics. Make them play in Romania. Romanians will do anything. No more weepy crap about, We were friends—how could you have abused our friendship? They'd be slitting each other's throats."