P H O

Thomas Hunter lay on a gurney in a hallway of the overflowing emergency ward at Toronto General, wondering when and where he had made the wrong choice to end up in such a hellhole. Had it been one wrong choice, or a series of them? He stared at the needle in his arm, his eyes following the line of thin tubing up to the bag of clear fluid. His disoriented mind tried to sort through the day’s confusion.

I went for walk. I was going to cut through Grange, but saw Crazy Singing Dance Lady. Didn’t want her voice looping in our head all day so we avoided the park. Any hour of the day it seemed, he could exit the front door of his apartment building, and find Crazy Singing Dance Lady across the street, singing and dancing as if her life depended on it. She’d sashay, tap, plié, shuffle, crooning: “I want to be a star. See my name written ‘cross the sky. Staring into space. Calling me home where I belong.” Her candid performance usually fascinated him, but not today. He needed to walk and clear his head, trusting the familiar route he always followed to lead him to Brazil Bakery, where the mortadella piled high on freshly baked buns was his go-to comfort food. He was about to turn down Dundas, but didn’t see the usual markers – AGO, pub, construction lot. He scanned his surroundings, feeling confused. No black and white checks of OCAD or CN Tower behind him. Panic arose within, mixing with his already anxious thoughts.

“College and Brock?” He looked around bewildered. “How did I get up here?” Good question. How did we get here? You took us completely off course. The voices in his head echoed his confusion.

Heart pounding, internal voices chirping, he stood still, taking deep breaths, trying to get his bearings. A bargain hunter, Thomas was always pursuing cheap materials for his art practice, scouring different neighbourhoods for supplies. He wasn’t completely off course, just enough to feel disoriented and confused about where the path had taken him. Walking usually soothed his nervous system. But the pressure to make a life-changing decision had him especially piqued and struggling to corral the voices in his head. Are we lost Thomas? Something isn’t right here. Where did you go? Did we cross into a different dimension again? Where are we?

His heart beat rapidly and he felt light-headed. “That’s what can happen when you’re not paying attention to where you’re going,” his mother’s voice resounded in his head, bringing him back to the hallway of the ER. His parents were on their way to pick him up after the hospital had insisted someone monitor his condition overnight. He stared at the ceiling, feeling so disappointed in himself, but relieved his parents were coming.

‘Why do these things keep happening to me?” he asked aloud, staring at the fluorescent light overhead. As if in response, his mind took him travelling back a few days before to the moment he had received the contract from work. He was about to click on the auto-sign arrow, when he hesitated, feeling his chest tighten. Sign it. No, don’t sign it. Isn’t this what you want? It’s what your parents want. I’m not sure. Then a picture flashed in his head. He saw himself lying on a stretcher, being loaded into an ambulance. Not wanting to believe in premonitions he dismissed the warning, closed the email without signing, and headed out for a long walk instead. As the days passed, the unsigned contract became a mounting anxiety.

 

A sudden commotion of the ER doors opening to two guards struggling with a man, howling like a crazed animal, brought his attention back to the hospital hallway. He flinched in horror when the man looked up and snarled, then barked at him as the guards pushed him down into a chair.

Don’t look at him and he won’t see us. Are you crazy? Don’t take your eyes off him. Squeezing one eye shut, and keeping the other open in order to scan his surroundings, Thomas let his mind return to earlier in the day when he realized he had gotten off track.

Trying to get his bearings, he had turned around to head back along College when the word

P H O written in giant letters near the top of the building across the street grabbed his attention. The rumble in his belly reminded him that he needed to eat.

‘Do I want pho?’ he mused, about to step forward to cross the street when something stopped him. Don’t eat there Silly. Feels sketchy. We don’t need food poisoning. But he loves pho. Warily, he looked up at the sign again, and then noticed a homeless guy lying sprawled in a nearby doorway. Thomas wrinkled his nose, scanning the street in both directions.

How’d I get up here anyway? Other than the homeless guy, the street was strangely and eerily quiet for a sunny Sunday in March.

‘Where is everyone?’ he wondered, feeling warm. Taking out his phone, he typed the restaurant’s name into the search bar – Rising Phoenix. ‘Hmmm, great reviews.’ He was about to cross the street, but noticed a dark figure sitting at a table in the front window of the restaurant. A shiver ran through his body. A man was watching him. Remember Tommy, you’re a magnet for weirdos. Let’s not test our luck. Stick to the plan. He turned and headed back in the direction of the bakery.

 

The ping of his phone brought him back again to the busy hospital hallway. ‘Your dad and I are on our way.’ His relief turned into anxiety. His parents had been pressing him to push for a permanent position at work. When his boss had finally hinted that something long term was on the horizon, he had been excited to tell them. His family was pleased when he’d been hired for the temp position, through his sister’s contacts, in the props department at a local television studio.

“You’ve almost landed your dream job!” his father hooted. “Reel it in, Son!”

“Imagine getting paid to do what you love,” said his mother. “It is a dream job for a young artist like you, Thomas.” But it’s not your dream job, Tommy.

“It’s better than the minimum wage service jobs you’re used to,” his sister piped in. “Looks like that MFA may pay off, and you won’t end up a starving artist after all.” We won’t let you starve, Silly. Stick with us, Tommy.

While Thomas was happy to be gainfully employed, his real passion was his own performance art. He created costumes and performed a series of Pierrot characters in short vignettes, which he posted on his Instagram and YouTube channel. Mom’s right. The job at the studio is a dream job for an emerging artist. I’ll still be making costumes and sets. But not your designs, Silly. Thomas had a small Patreon audience who loved his clown costumes, and were always clamouring for more content. He could boast about his growing subscriber numbers, but didn’t want to jinx himself. ‘And your Patreon audience sure doesn’t pay the rent,’ his father liked to remind him.

New characters sprang forth fully formed in Thomas’ mind, each one an essential expression of his nature with a voice of their own. He loved acting out their misadventures, often spending hours in their world. These skill sets translated nicely to the studio position, where his playful nature and uncanny ability for seeing the world through a clown’s eyes blended perfectly with the requirements of a children’s television show.

“And Sweetie, it’s good to make connections and spend some time with real people,”

reminded his mother after Thomas received the contract for the permanent position. We are real to you, aren’t we Tommy? We are, Silly.

“Imagine Thom, a real life in the real world,” smirked his sister.

In the ER hallway, the crazy man sitting in the chair across from Thomas growled, then began barking like a rabid dog. He tried to lunge at passing hospital staff, but the security guard pushed him back into the chair. Ping! Thomas looked at his phone nervously to see a text from Oskar: Are you still in the ER? I’m worried about you.

Thomas smiled weakly, his thoughts straying to the last conversation he’d had with his new boyfriend. “It was your dream job before you met me!” declared Oskar. Thomas had met Oskar online, and the friendship had quickly blossomed into a relationship.

“Yes, but you live in Berlin, and I live in Toronto,” reminded Thomas, trying to ground himself. “You run your own business. You have a whole professional life, even your own condo.”

“Yes, but I’m pretty sure you and I are the dream come true. Did you expect to fall so deeply in love that you’d be willing to uproot your whole existence for someone?” Absolutely not. Don’t do it, Silly.

“No, but I also can’t just walk away from this job opportunity,” said a sober Thomas. “How can I turn it down? My parents’ll kill me.” Although only a few years older than Thomas, Oskar was already living a grownup existence in Thomas’ mind. He’s bossy, Silly. He’s not fun. He’s a dream crusher, Tommo. He doesn’t like us. That’s for sure.

“Quit fooling around,” Oskar teased Thomas. “You are practically still living a student’s life.” You’re not fooling around; you’re clowning around. You like playing dress up, Silly. Feeling weak and uncertain, Thomas looked away from his phone screen and went silent.

“I can’t pick up and move to Toronto,” Oskar liked to repeat. “You can easily make art here.” Oskar had many friends in Berlin who were artists. He had convinced Thomas to apply for a six-month artist-in-residence program at Künstlerhaus Bethanien. “Otherwise, you are simply selling out your muse to “The Man,” which is precisely why you shouldn’t sign that contract.” Thomas thought about spending his few savings to cover the flight to Berlin. Hey, you saved that money to buy material for your next costume!

“Accommodations won’t be an issue,” Oskar assured him. “You won’t ever want to go home.” Oskar beamed, and Thomas smiled wanly. Remember Tommo, there’s no place like home.

 

“Outta the way kid!’ snarled a voice on the street behind Thomas. He visibly startled as a man, walking two huge dogs and carrying a cosplay sword, charged past him on the sidewalk not far from the Rising Phoenix. Thomas felt lost and wondered which direction to go. He waited for the guy with the dogs to move farther ahead before following in the same direction, backtracking to Dufferin where he turned south and headed for the bakery. Let’s grab a sandwich, and then head to the park. What if all the benches are taken? We’ll find somewhere to sit in the sun. We need to relax. Eat some lunch. I’m starving. As he walked, his mind drifted to recent events, his thoughts whirling. You need to post more content. He’s got too much other stuff to do right now. When are you going to finish the new costume? Oskar will be disappointed that you haven’t submitted the application. Sign that permanent contract. It’s a dream job. Are you really going to pass that up?

Thomas had had a nightmare a couple nights after the studio director had hinted at a more permanent position. In it, he was sleepwalking during a city-wide power outage and had fallen into an open manhole. Still asleep, he wandered around underground, trying to find his way in the dark. The place was full of homeless people, wearing his Pierrot costumes. They reached out their hands to him. Chhannngge, chhannngge, they moaned. Crazy Singing Dance Lady was there under a spotlight, crooning, “I want to be a star. See my name written ‘cross the sky. Staring into space. Calling me home where I belong.” She pointed, and the spotlight turned onto Thomas. He awakened, still in the dream, standing in a pool of light. His costumes were lying lifeless all around him. Directly in front of him, a giant earwig eyeballed him. “You’re no match for me,” it said and clicked its monstrous pincers threateningly. Thomas turned to flee, running in place. The earwig grabbed him in one of its pincers, gave him a good shake, and then flung him back up the manhole.

 

“Hey kid, got any change?” interrupted a voice. A woman sitting on the cold concrete outside a vape store leered up at him through rheumy eyes. He dug into his pocket searching for a loonie, but something about her eyes made him keep walking. No change here. Sorry Crazy-Eyed Lady. I need all the change I can get. Exactly we can’t expect your parents to keep footing the bill. Sign that contract, Silly. Get them off our back, Tommy. You know that’s what they want.

Thomas made a point of giving money to specific homeless people whenever he walked by them. Old Praying Lady on Queen who always complimented his fashion choices, blessing him whenever he handed her a loonie. Fred, the Guy with the Walker, outside the Krispy Kreme on McCaul. Fred had a droopy eye, but not crazy eyes. He always thanked Thomas, calling him “a caring young man.” But the ones with the crazy eyes, they stirred something frightening in Thomas. ‘There but for the grace of the gods go I,’ he’d say, twisting one of his mother’s gratitude expressions.

As he rounded the corner onto Dundas, one of the crazy-eyed ones was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Pitching back and forth, the guy blocked pedestrian traffic.

“Hey kid, help me out,” the guy demanded, lurching toward Thomas, his filthy hand outstretched. Lost in his inner dialogue, Thomas hadn’t noticed the man until too late. He pivoted quickly, a neon sign in the window to his left, grabbed his attention. TAROT READINGS, it flashed. His mind jumped to the last time he had hung out with his friend Alex. She was taking an online course, learning about divination.

“Pull a card,” she said pushing a tarot deck his way. “I’ll give you a reading.” His hand moved forward to take a card, but he hesitated. He wasn’t into this esoteric stuff. His mother was always sending him his horoscope whenever it suggested something she wanted for him. He felt his chest tighten, but did not want to disappoint his friend. He looked at the wall behind Alex, covered with posters of tarot and oracle figures. His eyes scanned the images, settling on the Hunter: Track Down Your Fears and Desires. The Hunter’s eyes bored into him. Thomas shivered, when the Hunter mouthed: I dare you. When he finally reached to pull a card, two others seemed to shake loose from the deck and fall onto the table before him.

“Ooooh, three, the cards have spoken,” joked Alex. Thomas placed the one between his fingers onto the table in front of her.

“Which one first?” asked Alex. He pointed to one of the two that had fallen out. She turned it over.

“The King of Cups in ‘The Past’,” said Alex, “all about emotional maturity and control.”

“Neither of which I have,” Thomas grimaced. He picked up the card. The King on the Throne winked at him, saying “A smooth sea never a skilled sailor made.” Huh?

“Don’t worry,” Alex assured him. “The Past points to things either holding us back or with the potential to help us.” She turned the second card over. Judgement.

“Thanks, but I’m full up,” slumped Thomas, looking at the card closely.

“A major arcana in ‘present challenges.’ The Universe has a message for you,” crowed Alex. “Turn over the third to see ‘The Future’.” He picked up the card and turned it over. The Five of Pentacles. He stared at the image in dismay. Two homeless people in tattered clothing, walking barefoot in the snow.

“Forget it,” he said, picking up the cards, and placing them back on the top of the deck. “I don’t wanna know the future.” He looked past Alex, feeling the Hunter’s eyes still on him. Look away, Silly. He’s not real. He’s not real? What is real then?

Dismissing the memory and ignoring both the guy and the flashing neon sign, Thomas rushed down the street to the bakery. Remember what dad always tells us, Tommy. ‘Fortune favours the bold, son!’ Except you’re a coward. Shut up. Well, you are Silly. How are you gonna tell them you’re going to Berlin? Mom’s gonna freak out. We all know what dad’s gonna say: ‘where’re you getting the money for something like that?’

Shortly after getting the studio job, his father had said, “Son, you need to go to that studio tomorrow, and show the director what a hotshot you are.”

“Sweetie, this job is perfect for you,” reassured his mother. “It pays well, and you’d be doing what you love.”

“Fortune favours the bold, Son!” Dad trumpeted, punching Thomas’ arm.

“Dad, I’m not going to hound her,” Thomas sighed. “Can’t we talk about something else while you’re both here?” He loved when his parents visited him, but somehow it always turned into one of those discussions when he really just wanted to hang out with them.

 

Finally arriving at the bakery, Thomas yanked on the door and walked in. The place was packed. Every table spoken for, the air hot and steamy from the bread ovens. He made his way to the counter, and waited for someone to take his order. The staff seemed lost in their thoughts. Nobody paid any attention to him as they passed back and forth behind the counter.

“Excuse me. Hi there. I’d like to order a sandwich,” he called to the woman rearranging cheeses in the glass case before him. She straightened up, looked right through him, and headed through the doors to the backroom. After another minute, a young man came out those same doors and headed toward him.

“What can I get you?” he asked, addressing a couple who suddenly materialized at the counter.

“Ummm, I was here first,” Thomas suggested. “I’d like to order a sandwich please.” But neither the young man nor the couple seemed to notice him. What is going on? Suddenly I’m freakin’ invisible? Frustrated and overheating, he stormed out of the bakery, heading in the direction from which he’d come.

“Pho it is,” he announced, stepping into the cooler air. He walked on autopilot, quickly getting lost in his internal dialogue. How are you gonna tell them you’re going to Berlin? What do you think they’ll say? Are you leaving us behind, Tommy? Careful, you’ve still got to ask Mom for your passport. He punched his thigh and quickly looked over his shoulder. What twenty-five-year-old still lets his mother hold on to his ID? Oskar is right, time to grow up. Just tell them about the residency. Dad, it’s like you always tell me: Fortune has spoken. I doubt that, Tommy. I am taking a chance. I am being bold. I doubt that, Thomas.

“Change,” demanded a voice from across the street. Same woman outside the vape shop.

“How is it she can see me?” he muttered under his breath, determined not to make eye contact. No, no change here. Just tell them: I’ve met someone. I’m going to Berlin. Mom’s gonna give you the look. Dad’s gonna give the same old speech: ‘There’s no time to waste fooling around son; you’ve got to stay on the scent.’ Yeah, not running off to Germany for some guy you just met online. Why did I wait so long to say something. Because you’re a coward, Silly.

He turned onto College Street, hungry after so much walking. He was about to dart across at the crosswalk when out of nowhere someone grabbed his coat at the elbow. An elderly man held tight to his jacket arm, pointing across the street with a walking stick fashioned from a fallen tree limb.

“Help me cross,” the old man commanded, pointing to the road, uneven with winter pot holes and street car tracks. Thomas looked the old man up and down with suspicion. He wore a tattered great coat with an epaulet on one shoulder, a piece of nylon rope cinching the waist for a belt. Thomas was appalled by the man’s smell, and his long greasy beard coated in slimy spittle. Other than a snotty nose and bad odour, the man appeared old and feeble, not crazy-eyed or asking for money Thomas didn’t have. Guarded, but not wanting to be rude, he offered the man his elbow. As if taking ownership of Thomas, the old man slipped his hand around the young man’s arm and held tight. They inched along the crosswalk, Thomas feeling the impatience of a driver who had stopped to let them cross.

Once on the other side, the old man did not let go. He held up his walking stick, and moved his arm from left to right with a vigour that surprised Thomas. “Careful what you eat around here,” he huffed. “You don’t want to get poisoned.” He headed toward a doorway to the left of the restaurant.

 

“Hello again, Thomas,” said Dr. Girtab, approaching the hospital gurney, glancing down at the chart in his hand. “That must have been pretty scary for you, huh?” Thomas, returning to the present moment, nodded his head in agreement. I thought for sure we’d die there alone on that sidewalk. The doctor fiddled with the IV drip, turning some knobs.

“Yeah, your blood pressure was really low when they brought you in here,” said Dr. Girtab, looking at him intently. “Lucky for you, someone called 911.” Thank you whoever you were.

“I hope the P H O was worth it,” said the doctor, a strange glint in his eyes. “We’ll be ready to release you soon. The IV is almost finished and your readings are good.” Hearing the word ‘readings,’ Thomas’s mind jumped to Alex and the tarot card reading he had scuttled. Those cards! They have nothing to do with what’s happening here. Right? Then his mind drifted back to earlier that day.

“What is happening here?” Thomas wondered aloud, squinting as the old man slipped through a door, disappearing into a bright light. Crazy old man. Ignore him Silly. Ignore him? We literally issued the same warning. Were you listening? Thomas stood on the sidewalk directly under the

P H O sign, uncertain what to do. He looked through the front window of the restaurant. The shady guy eyeballing him from the window seat earlier was gone. He looked across the street where he noticed a row of restaurants, their shiny signage advertising the possibilities. Plenty of choice around here. By now Thomas was ravenous. Still hesitating, when his stomach growled loudly, he decided to risk it.

He entered the restaurant, found a table near the back, ordered the soup and a fresh spring roll when the waitress appeared. He felt exhausted and relieved to be finally feeding his hunger.

Instead of the waitress, the shady guy from the window placed the steaming bowl before Thomas. He loomed menacingly. “You ordered the P-H-O.” He spelled it out — P-H-O. He pointed to his black t-shirt, the letters P H O written in red across the top.

“P-H-O,” he spelled out the word again. Huh? What is this a spelling bee? The man stroked his forearm, drawing Thomas’s eyes to a tattoo of a scorpion. He hated tattoos, especially on old people. The lights in the restaurant suddenly flickered. What’s happening here? We don’t trust this guy. Let’ s get outta here. His instinct was to bolt, but he’d already wolfed down the spring roll.

“The P-H-O here,” spelled the man, “is the best in the city. In fact, it’s life changing.” He waited for Thomas to taste it. “We made it just to your liking.” Our liking? How would he know what we like? Thomas picked up the spoon, and feeling pressured by circumstances, cautiously tried the soup. His tongue jumped at the taste. His pulse beat quickly. The soup was extraordinary. His hunger outweighed his concerns, and he began to eat with relish.

“Hungry guy like you. I don’t doubt you’ll be a repeat customer,” said the man. His strange eyes leered at Thomas. Then he backed away from the table, disappearing into the kitchen. Yup, magnet for weirdos. Like flies on –

“Thomas, hey Thomas, listen up,” said Dr. Girtab, coming up to the gurney. “We’ve pumped you full of epinephrine and fluids. Judging from the amount, you’re going to be wired for a while.”

“Yeah, ok,” said Thomas trying to focus. Judging, Judgment…those cards again. Why I had turned over those cards?

“You’ve been struck by Cupid’s arrow,” Alex had joked, putting the cards aside. Thanks Cupid. Stupid Cupid. Stupid Thomas. He looked up at the Hunter, asking aloud, “If I don’t go to Germany, do you think I’ll regret it?”

“You need to be more confident about making decisions for yourself,” Alex stated clearly. “That’s why I’m learning Tarot. The cards are guides, but I decide on the meaning.” Thomas knew she was right, even though he doubted her way. He had always relied on his parents to point him in the logical direction. Like this contract. It was a dream job. But he was smitten. Even his sister, who he thought would have his back, had questioned his plans. Thom, you can’t not take the contract. That would be foolish. When I asked Merope to consider you for the position, I didn’t think you’d bail on her. And honestly, do you think mom and dad are gonna just let you run off with some stalker you met online.

 

“You’ll need to get this prescription filled,” stated Dr. Girtab, ripping a sheet from his pad and bringing Thomas back to the current moment. “Who’s picking you up from this hellhole?”

“My parents,” said Thomas, raising an eyebrow at the doctor’s turn of phrase. His anxiety rose just thinking about his parents driving all the way from Hamilton in the middle of the night to collect him from the ER. Inevitably he’d have to tell them everything. From one hellhole to another, Silly.

Thomas’s thoughts drifted to his apartment. He would have to give up his place. You can’t expect mom and dad to keep paying the rent when you run off for a tryst. What’ll you do about Ginger and Blackie? He had two large koi in a giant tank. My costumes, sewing machine, all my stuff. It was a lot to consider. He studied the needle in his arm, picking at the edges of the tape. Maybe I do need to stop clowning around?

“It’s indecision that landed you here,” said the nurse as she began disconnecting him from the heart monitor.

“Sorry, what did you say?” asked Thomas.

“I said, that as soon as you’re clear, we can let you go.” She continued her work, tugging at wires, and then gently removing the needle from his arm, applied a bandage.

“You’re gonna be fine now,” winked the nurse. “But do yourself a favour and stay away from P-H-O.” The exit sign at the end of hall flickered, and his mind jumped to the moments leading up to his arrival by ambulance at the ER.

 

Even before he had finished his meal, Thomas began to feel strange. He took the stairs down to the restroom where he saw in the dirty mirror that his eyes and lips were beginning to swell. His heart was tapdancing in his chest. Told you. Poison. Why didn’t you listen earlier. His neck was red, his throat itchy. He pulled up his sleeves. His forearms were covered in red blotches.

“I gotta get out of this place,” he said aloud to his reflection. You do you, it replied. His feet felt leaden as he slowly made his way up the stairs. You’re burning up. Pay the bill and let’s book it.

“You don’t look so well” said the man with the tattooed arm, blocking the door.

“I think I’m having a reaction to something,” said Thomas.

“That’s probable,” said the man in a detached voice. “Next time, pay attention to all the ingredients before diving in to the soup.” He stepped aside, and Thomas, who was beginning to experience tunnel vision, crossed the threshold onto the street. He stood wavering. What was in that pho? Am I dying? He became delirious, seeing Crazy Singing Dance Lady on a billboard across the street. She pointed at him and crooned: “I want to be a star. See my name written ‘cross the sky. Staring into space. Calling me home where I belong.” The billboard flashed, and first The King of Cups, and then the Hunter stared down at Thomas. Oskar’s face appeared next. Finally, his Pierrot figures danced before his eyes.

“Help me cross,” said the old man, coming suddenly out of the next doorway and grabbing onto Thomas’s jacket for the second time that day. Thomas felt light-headed. His mind went silent. He didn’t protest. He could barely see. The old man took hold of his arm and forcibly pulled him toward the crosswalk.

“I’ve got to get you across kid,” said the elderly man. Thomas felt himself floating high above his body, surprised to be watching himself lean into the old man for support. The silence vanquished all the voices in his head. All the decisions that had been burdening him vanished. All his doubt evaporated. When they got to the other side, the old man let go of his arm, and Thomas collapsed into a fetal position on the cold concrete. The old man nudged his body with his worn boot, then prodded him with the walking stick.

“You’ll be fine now, kid,” the old man chuckled. Then he turned and disappearing into a brightly lit doorway, crooned, “Fortune also favours the fool.”