My name is Denver Collins, although most people call me Denny. It was August 15, 2009, and, as a matter of fact, my 40th birthday. I awoke in my bed to a small round face just inches from my own; the huge smile was mischievous and she was eager to speak.
"Happy Birthday Daddy!"
My daughter Jordan was sitting on my chest with her hands on either side of my face, holding it in place in case I might look away. For a 3-year-old, her strength was formidable.
"Thanks sweetie. Where's your mom?"
"Inna kitchen, makinna eggs."
I lifted Jordan off my chest and swung my feet out of bed. We sat side by side on the bed, our feet hanging off the edge, dangling in the cool morning air. As I stood up, the coldness of the hardwood sent little shockwaves through the soles of my feet. Jordan grabbed my hand and led me down the stairs and into the kitchen where a plate of good old-fashioned bacon and eggs was waiting for me to devour them.
"Honey. Thank you, this is very sweet," I said coyly.
My wife, Diane, was statuesque, tall, feminine, and downright striking. She was an intimidatingly beautiful woman, and one not to be reckoned with. That was one of the many reasons I loved her.
We met under strange circumstances, which is to say she was the girlfriend, then fiancee, then wife of a friend. She became a close friend and confidant of mine throughout the course of that relationship. That is, until her marriage fell apart and we fell in love. I think it was a case of both of us figuring out too late how we felt about each other. Then through the mess that was their break-up and eventual divorce, we found the clarity to admit our feelings for one another and be together. Or something like that. In any case, we have been together now for almost 13 years, and married for 11 of those years. Life couldn't get much sweeter.
I thumbed through the crisp morning paper, skipping the depressing true crime stories that were gloriously emblazoned across the front page to look for real news. The whole country seemed to be in a state of panic over the swine flu. As the majority of the public seemed to be uneducated about it, the panic had risen to record levels. Line-ups at walk-in and mall vaccination clinics were hundreds of people deep, all clamoring to get the vaccine to save them from the new flu. Diane and I weren't particularly fond of the 'vaccines solve everything' credo that so many people tended to follow. We just couldn't buy into it. We have immune systems for a reason. But we had always kept Jordan up to date on all her regular vaccinations since she was a baby, and when this flu started to hit we learned through some research that her age group was the most susceptible. We arranged with our doctor to get the vaccine as soon as it was available. Once our doctor had it, we took Jordan in to get injected -- with a few tears shed. That was before the line-ups. Before the madness. Since Diane and I were not at risk, we didn't bother with the vaccine. There was no need to fret. It's amazing how much more prepared you can be if you just read up on things a bit before jumping on the panic bandwagon.
There didn't seem to be much good news in the paper that day, so I opted out of the stereotypical newspaper-reading-dad mode, and asked Jordan about her day instead.
"So what's going on today my sweet? Are you going to the park at daycare?"
"Yeah daddy, we gonna play at the park, and eat cupcakes, and I gonna go on tha swing and play."
I love toddler sentence structure. She rambled on for a solid two more minutes, and I'll be damned if she didn't take one breath the whole time. After she was done and had returned to her entrancement with Count Chocula, I went over the day's schedule with Diane and ensured her I would be back by dinner.
I finished my birthday breakfast and opened a present from my daughter, a copy of North by Northwest on Blu-ray, undoubtedly purchased with some assistance from Mommy. Either that, or she already had an uncanny taste in films. I gave each of my girls a kiss, showered, and got dressed for the day ahead. Diane was pulling out of the driveway to take Jordan to daycare when I heard a horn honking outside. I was planning to have a celebration at home with Diane and Jordan that evening, but first I was heading out for a birthday road trip with my friend Thom. Thom had been through his share of tragedy in the past couple of years so he needed these outings just as much as I did.
Thom is a music producer, and I'm a screenwriter. Well, I fancy myself one, but, truth be told, I'm a feature magazine writer for Hollywood North, a reputable Canadian film industry magazine. That's what I do now anyway, until some brilliant producer out there has his or her epiphany and decides they can't live without one of my scripts.
Thom and I are also film buffs. One of our favorite pastimes is going into Toronto to see old movies at the Bloor Cinema. Today, on my birthday, the cinema was kind enough to be showing a most peculiar double feature, Annie Hall and Phantom of the Paradise. I don't know how two of my favorite films showed up in the same theatre on my birthday, but they did. Thom may or may not have been behind this strange coincidence, but I wasn't questioning my stupendous and fortunate luck. I just wanted to sit in that musty old gem of a theatre and soak up the adventures of Alvy Singer and Winslow Leach while sipping a moderately cold fountain Coke. God, I loved that combination of a movie theatre and a fountain Coke while partaking in the communal appreciation of a good movie with a crowd of strangers. Damn, I will miss that.
