Salome didn’t come to a good end either. Tried out for ballet school. Modern Dance was what she thought would suit her, show a lot of skin, centre your thoughts on the pelvis, bare feet, fling yourself about, but she didn’t get in. Left home after some sort of blowup between the mom and the stepdad, midnight yelling about Miss Princess and her goings-on, furniture was thrown. After that she took to stripping in bars, just to annoy them I bet. Got whacked in her dressing room one night, right before the show, too bad for Management, someone clobbered her over the head with a vase, nothing on but her black leather macramé bikini and that steel-studded choke collar, used to get the clients all worked up, not that I’d know personally. Saw two guys running out the stage door in bicycle-courier outfits, some sort of uniform anyway, never caught them though. Hit men set on by the stepdad is one rumour, wild with jealousy. Guys get like that when their hair falls out. It was all the mother’s fault, if you ask me.

  CANADOLL

  MYNA WALLIN

  State-Of-The-Art Home Pleasure

  INTRODUCING CANADOLL

  FROM SIMULOVE INDUSTRIES.

  First there was CANADARM, a remote-controlled mechanical appendage used on NASA space shuttles from 1981-2011, establishing Canada’s unparalleled reputation as a leader in the field of robotics. The CANADARM could be thought of as a 15-metre human arm with a wrist, elbow, and shoulder that could bend and turn with more flexibility and sensitivity than a real human arm!

  What does all this innovation have to do with the newly conceived CANADOLL? Well, there are plenty of companies penetrating the sex-bot market these days, but only one Canadian company has the robotic engineering expertise and technologically proven capabilities to produce the most realistic love doll on the market, guaranteeing an experience even more real than the real thing! If you’ve ever dreamed of creating the ideal partner to meet all your needs, programmed to your exact specifications, designed by you and for you, choose CANADOLL from Simulove. Simulove Industries promises each customer will be entirely satisfied, or your money back!

  There was a big cardboard box waiting for me at Canada Post. It was so big that the clerk behind the counter, usually impersonal and bored, was clearly curious. He didn’t exactly come out and ask, “What the hell’s in the box, eh?” but I could see him twitching, his mouth trying to form the question, as I signed my name and showed him a piece of ID.

  I was so excited I could hardly breathe. I had taken a shower, washed my hair, done my nails and put on some sexy lingerie, just like I would for a regular date. Only this would be better, better than real life. Real was messy, hurtful, and probably not going to call me back. Real was condescending, like my last boyfriend, who complained I was “sex-obsessed,” because I wanted to have sex more than twice a week. Twice a week! My best friend thought he might be in the closet. She said any man who worked out at the YMCA three times a week, one more time than he wanted to have sex with me, was definitely suspect.

  Anyway, I was fed up with dating. Especially the perfect-in-the-beginning and then flaws-and-cracks-appearing-soon-after kind of dating. So tiring, so migraine-inducing. This was going to be fantastic, this perfect man, wrapped in bubble wrap, vacuum-sealed, cushioned in Styrofoam “peanuts” with the return address: “Beaver Creek, BC.”

  Back up a few months. I was hanging out with a girlfriend and we were watching a crazy documentary on male and female sex-bots. These were dolls with silicone made to feel like real skin, with anatomically correct parts, with the weight and heft and hair of “breathing” people. They didn’t move or speak like in sci-fi films or books, but they’d come a long way. They were real enough for their owners to fall in love with them. The craze originated in Japan, with the video game LoveForever, and its love sims, Megumi, Akane, and Gimisum, and then it caught on just about everywhere. Admittedly, it was still an underground thing, but highly profitable, nonetheless. Canada didn’t invent the love sim; they just perfected it.

  “God, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of,” my friend Nicole said. She had never had a problem getting a date in her life and took pleasure separating the wheat from the chaff. At the time, I said I agreed with her, but as time passed, it didn’t seem so stupid anymore. Now here he was, my very own CANADOLL, waiting for me to release him from his box, waiting for me to make love to him. He was my life-sized secret. How could anyone possibly understand?

  “Hello, Ryan,” I whispered tentatively, peeling the sealed plastic shrink-wrap from his life-like body.

  I had decided to name him Ryan Gosling, after one of my favourite actors. Ryan had a body that wouldn’t quit, and his on-screen persona was usually sweet and gentle. I knew Ryan, my Ryan, would never disappoint me; he’d never show a side of himself that I wouldn’t like. He was mine.

  I lifted him, gingerly, out of his packaging. A note fell out, saying this was model #69 (weren’t they all model #69?) and had been carefully inspected by Cindy (I’ll bet he had!). If there were any defects, I was to contact Simulove Industries directly within forty-eight hours of receipt. He would be promptly and lovingly replaced.

  I removed every last peanut shell that stuck to Ryan’s creamy but not overly soft skin; he had a two-day shadow of stubble, just as I’d requested. I offered him some Oka cheese and crackers, and a glass of Riesling Icewine from the Okanagan Valley, to make him feel at home. He wasn’t hungry and I gathered he never would be, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to be thoughtful. Or make assumptions. He might get hungry. You never know.

  I expected Ryan wouldn’t be much of a conversationalist, but that was all right. What I needed was a good listener. I told him about my problems with men, how frustrated I had been in finding a good one, and he just stared at me with those decent, London, Ontario-born eyes.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Now that cannabis was legal – since July 2018, thanks to our still hot-as-a-pistol Prime Minister – I asked Ryan if he wanted any. I had briefly considered putting Justin on my short list of programmable males, but it turned out it was against the law to turn a head of state into a facsimile bot. Too bad.

  I closed the blinds in my two-bedroom apartment and laid Ryan on the leather couch in my living room. I always liked fooling around with my boyfriends on the couch first, then going into the bedroom later. Why should Ryan be any different? He had a head of gorgeous blond hair (I’d had enough of brunets) and a pinkish hue to his cheeks, making him look perpetually excited and a little drunk. His eyes were sapphire blue and his body muscular. He wore jeans and a tight T-shirt, but I knew he wanted to get out of them. I already felt connected to him.

  “Let’s go, Rachel,” I thought I heard him whisper. I took off my clothes, and with La La Land on the wide-screen TV in the background I took him right there and then. We fit perfectly. We did it on the couch, me on top – my favourite position. My breasts bobbed against the stubble on his face, and I could swear I felt a few drops of saliva on my nipples coming from his mouth. Gosh, these Simulove people really did know what they were doing! Ryan’s body was perfect. His penis hardened with some kind of hydraulic pump implant. All I had to do was squeeze his hand affectionately, and his penis went rock hard. And stayed that way until I was done. I came four times that night and I’m pretty sure I had a G-spot orgasm at least two of the four times. Oh, CANADOLL!

  “I love you,” Ryan whispered.

  “I love you, too,” I answered. And I meant it. I carried Ryan to my bedroom and curled up, wrapped in his strong arms and thighs all night.

  In the morning, I reached out for him, but he wasn’t there. I heard dishes clatter in the kitchen and smelled the aroma of fresh coffee, toast, eggs and bacon wafting up to the bedroom! I thought I must still be dreaming; one of those dreams where you think you’re awake and then realize it’s still part of the dream. I walked into the kitchen and Ryan came over and kissed me, his life-like arms wrapping around my waist. I felt his breath on my neck as he kissed me again.

  “You aren’t dreaming,” he answered, as if reading my mind. “Sit down, I’ll explain,” he said gently, sounding a lot like Ryan Gosling.

  He gave me a cup of coffee, already knowing how I took it. I sipped at the coffee, still shaken.

  “If we are treated properly, if we are made love to the way we want to be made love to, we have the ability to make ourselves self-sufficient. Of course, the company can’t say so; it isn’t legal, you see. It crosses the line between home entertainment and prostitution. You understand?”

  “So, you’re…uh…real?” I stammered.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” Ryan answered. And shrugged that famous Canadian nice-guy shrug.

  “Are you going to join me for breakfast? Then maybe some dessert in the bedroom after?”

  “I’m not programmed for that kind of eating, Rachel. But I can learn. I’ll sit with you for now, keep you company.” Had my bot just picked up on a double entendre, made a sly dirty joke, and admitted that he’s trainable?

  “Can you go out?” I asked, still baffled, wondering if my meds were working.

  “No. I’m an adaptable sex toy, nothing more, nothing less,” Ryan answered, without emotion.

  “Oh, I see,” I said, hugely relieved.

  I contacted Simulove and wrote a rave online review, anonymously, of course. I figured there was no point mentioning the talking, the moving around of his own volition. It was entirely possible I was having a psychotic break. No point worrying anybody. Either way, I’d never been happier. I even called my therapist, told her I was doing much better, and thought I’d discontinue treatment for the time being. She asked me what was contributing to my “elevation in mood” as she put it, and I told her I was seeing someone.

  “Well, let me know if you want to resume treatment, Rachel, I’m always here. New relationships can be very stressful.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “I think I’ve met someone easy-going this time. Malleable, even.”

  We had a few months of pure bliss. Ryan loved to be showered with attention, we had lengthy conversations on a whole range of subjects, and he was an adept lover who never tired. I felt deeply calm and complete for the first time in years.

  When I was at my advertising job during the day, Ryan liked watching his own movies, and became quite taken with his on-screen persona. But he became equally frustrated when he found out he couldn’t sing or dance, like his character could in La La Land. He was also disappointed when I told him there was all kinds of red tape involved in acquiring a gun licence in Canada.

  “Rachel, in Drive and The Nice Guys, and a whole bunch of his other movies, he gets to shoot a gun. I don’t understand why he gets to do all these cool things and I don’t.”

  “Ryan, sweetie, you’ve got limitations, just like the rest of us,” I told him. “I guess you’re only programmed to do certain things. Like some people are good at math and science and others aren’t.”

  “But why, Rachel?”

  It started to dawn on me that when Ryan wasn’t in pleasing mode, his default position was that of a three-year-old child: “Why, Mommy, why is the sky blue?” Ryan’s questions were maddening. When I didn’t have the answers for him he became despondent.

  The only thing that seemed to cheer him up was watching sports, especially hockey. Gradually, like any three-year-old, he forgot about wanting to be Ryan from the movies, and started finding other role models. Now, he wanted to be Sidney Crosby. I got him the latest NHL Wii games for Christmas and he played virtual hockey for hours with it between playoffs.

  But I had to teach him everything. I had to teach him how to use the shower so he wouldn’t burn himself and then I had to remind him to do it again. He didn’t understand why some things (things that weren’t fun) had to be done over and over.

  He started to sit around and eat potato chips. Since he wasn’t really programmed for eating, he never knew when he was full. I’d come home from work, find him covered in potato chip crumbs, wearing the same Leaf’s sweatshirt he’d been wearing for days, his hair and nails filthy, and then he’d say, sweet as can be, “Do you want to have sexy-time, Rachel?” I was totally disgusted.

  I called Simulove and they took care of everything. Seriously, their customer service is off the charts. They promised me a free six-month upgrade, a new CANADOLL free of charge. A technician from Simulove came over and switched off Ryan before he knew what was happening. He also promised me they’d wipe Ryan’s memory and give him a good home.

  I had to do it; I had to send him back. Besides, they’re replacing him with The Justin. He was just added to their catalogue of bots since the Liberals were defeated by the NDPs. He will never sit around and watch hockey day and night, eating potato chips. Not my Justin. He’s got more important things on his mind. And he looks like he’ll be unbelievable in bed. Plus, he’s fluent in English and French. I can’t wait.

  HOW THE OLD MAN DIED

  JACQUES FERRON

  There was a bone askew above his stomach; he wasn’t sick, but the bone made him uncomfortable, stabbing him with every breath he took. He would have to stay quiet until the bone reset. After three or four weeks the wretched bone had not moved, the old man was going from bad to worse; they sent for the manipulator, but the manipulator, having felt him, refused to manipulate him, for by shifting the bone, he would have dislocated the nerve of the heart. The old man was done for. They sent for the priest.

  “Old man,” said the old woman to her husband, “maybe you’re not very sick, but you’re so old that you’re dying.”

  “I’m dying?”

  “Yes, you’re dying; what’s to become of me?”

  “And what about me?” asked the old man.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” replied the old woman. “All you have to do is lie back; the priest will take care of everything. Only you’ll have to be polite; you’ll fold your hands, look up, and think of the good Lord, if you can; if you can’t, just pretend to. And no funny business, do you understand!”

  The old man was having difficulty breathing; he promised to behave. However, the arrival of his boys with their sanctimonious faces upset him in his resolve. His hands were already folded, he tried to separate them without being noticed, but the old lady had her eye on him; she fastened his wrists with a long rosary. Just then the priest arrived, concluded that there was no hope for the old man, and accordingly made haste to administer the last rites. After that he was at a loss to know what to do; it wasn’t yet time to say the prayer for the dying.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked the old man.

  “Bad, thank you,” replied he.

  Bad, to be sure, but not bad enough to go under. Now higher, now lower, he was still rising and falling with the swell. The priest, who was inclined to be squeamish, retired to the kitchen, accompanied by the women. The boys, who had stayed with their father, didn’t waste a moment; his handcuffs they removed. The old man gave them a wave:

  “Hi there, boys!”

  “Hi there, Pa,” they replied.

  Short waves shook the old man. This lasted an hour or more; then after the final wave came the final hour; the old man was at peace at last in his bed; the bone pained him no more; he was healed; he was about to die. The women had returned to his side, smothering little seagull cries in their handkerchiefs. The priest was saying the prayer. It was too good, too good; it was too good to last.

  “The pot,” cried the dying man.

  The priest stopped. The chamber pot was brought, but the old man pushed it away:

  “Too late; I’ll go on the other side.”

  And he died.

  When they had put him in the coffin, clean-shaven and smartly dressed, he looked very distinguished. The old woman could not stop gazing at him, and tearfully she told him:

  “Ah, old man, my old man, if only you’d always been like this, sensible, clean, quiet, how I’d have loved you, how happy we’d have been!”

  She could talk all she liked, poor woman! The old man was not listening to her; he was in the kitchen laughing with his boys, laughing as much as one dare laugh at a wake.

  (Translated by Betty Bednarski)

  from

  THE COW THAT SWAM LAKE ONTARIO

  DAVID McFADDEN

  Anyway, on the evening of October 11 –

  I remember it well for it was my birthday –

  I was in a borrowed motorboat fishing for salmon

  on Lake Ontario just beyond the Burlington Canal

  through which giant Great Lakes steamers

  in fact huge ships from all around the world

  enter the factory-lined waters of Hamilton Harbour

  when I hear what I thought was a salmon

  skipping along on the surface as they often do

  and turning I was surprised to see

  a bovine head, with two shining horns

  and two eyes as full and calm as fresh-plucked plums

  ploughing steadfastly through the starry waves

  heading, and for this I checked my map and compass

  in the direction of Prince Edward County

  that peninsula on the north shore

  two hundred kilometres across the cold night waters

  of lovely Lake Ontario.

  Of course, I pulled my line and quietly followed

  at a respectful distance, knowing the very presence

  of an observer frequently alters that which is observed,

  and I was surprised to find what must seem absurd –

  the beast was proceeding in a line so straight

  and at such a steady pace, without diverging