Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - My Dying Wish - Dave Buys a Coffin & Dad is Dying

Episode Date: May 29, 2026

What song would you want played at your funeral? Dave starts thinking about that in our first story and ends by taking funeral preparation to a whole new level! Our second story is also about death. But don’t worry, it’s a funny one too.Ad-free listening is here! Listen to the pod ad-free and early, PLUS a whole bunch of other goodies – like virtual parties, Q&As, listener shout-outs & more. Subscribe here: apostrophe.supercast.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the apostrophe podcast network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton, and this is backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. Last week on the pod, we were talking about the fabulous Eugene. Eugene and his teeth. Eugene and his dying wish. And about my dad and his top ten favorite songs. If you haven't listened to last week's episode, let me summarize it for you in one sentence.

There are 100 songs in my dad's top 10. Dave doesn't have a list of dying wishes like Eugene did, but in our first story today, he does start to ponder the end of life. More specifically, the serious business of what music should be played at his funeral. I suspect Dave would have about 100 songs in his top 10, too. Anyway, that's where we're going to start today with that story. This is Stuart McLean with Dave Bies a Caulf. often. Billy London called Dave at the vinyl cafe at lunchtime. Any other Monday Dave might have missed his call, but not this Monday. This was a Monday in the middle of February, middle of February,

and it had been snowing all day. No one had been in the store for a couple of hours because no one was out. And who could blame them? Dave wasn't about to go out. So when Billy phoned, Dave was sitting in the comfy red chair by the cash, his feet propped on a milk crate, cup of soup balanced on the arm of the chair, Dave was multitasking. Listening to a new vinyl album, a tribute to Gordon Lightfoot and Neil Young, recorded by a couple of Canadian bands, the unintended on one side, and the Constantine's on the other. And while he's listening to the album, he was reading under the radar, a music magazine from LA. When the phone rang, he scooped it up and he said, just a minute.

flipped up the arm on the turntable and he picked up the phone again. Billy, he said, long time. What's up? Billy got right to the point. Billy said, Aunt Ginger died on the weekend. You're the only guy I could think of phoning. I thought you'd want to know. Dave said, huh? Billy said, yeah. And then neither of them said anything. Dave broke the silence. said, did she make it? She must have made it. Aunt Ginger wasn't Billy's real aunt. She was a family friend of some sort. She had a house in Rosdale and lived there alone, and when Billy slipped into Canada in 1968, dressed like a priest, she invited Billy to stay with her. Billy moved in and he stayed for the better part of seven years, or kept his stuff there anyway. Billy played

sacks and Billy was on the road all the time. That didn't bother Aunt Ginger one bit. She was a piece of business, as tough as nails, determined to live to be a hundred, missed by three and a half months. 99 and three quarters, said Dave. It would have killed her to know that. How'd she die? Skiing accident, said Billy. Skiing, said Dave. Well, snowboarding technically, said Billy. If you're going to be technical, they sat together at the funeral. An altogether extraordinary affair. It was organized by Aunt Ginger's only living relative,

her older sister, Muriel. Muriel sat in a wheelchair at the front of the chapel, as stiff as a plank. The two sisters hadn't spoken must have been 20 years. It was Muriel who chose the reading, Dr. Phil. Muriel who chose the decoration. balloons. And Muriel who chose the music.

Muriel who knew nothing whatsoever about music didn't know what to say when the funeral director asked her what they should play. So she asked what most people did. The funeral director said that most people chose a classical piece. Muriel named the only classical piece she knew, the flight of the bumblebee.

When the music began, everybody in the congregation looked horrified. Except Bill. and Dave. Not bad, actually, whispered Dave to Billy, as the piece picked up speed.

Perfect, actually, said Billy, nodding. In so many ways. The funeral was so awkward and wonderfully inappropriate that Dave couldn't stop talking about it for days. I want Zeppelin at my funeral, said Brian.

Brian's a philosophy calculus major who works part-time at the vinyl cafe. Stairway to heaven, said Dave, it's eight minutes long and totally obvious. Exactly, said Brian. And when they're carrying my coffin out of the church, I'm going to have Ozzy. I'm going to have Ozzy doing, Mama, I'm coming home. What about you?

Never thought of it, said Dave. I don't know. Don McLean, American Pie. The day the music died, said Brian. Talk about obvious. I hate that song. Right, said Dave. I can't believe I never thought of this before.

Dave was pulling on a sweatshirt. He was heading to Woodsworth's books, barely a block away. He didn't need a coat. How about Cat Stevens called Brian? Cat Stevens, oh, very young. Cat Stevens, said Dave. Dave had his hand on the door handle. I'd rather die than have Cat Stevens at my funeral.

I'll be back in a minute. Hi, said Dave, as he wandered into Dorothy's bookstore. Dorothy had her chestnut here. pulled back in a loose braid. She was reading Gorvadel. Hi, said Dorothy, putting the book down, smiling. Dave picked up a leather bookmark from a box on the counter and he started fiddling with it. Listen, he said, if I died tomorrow when you were planning my funeral, what music would you choose for my funeral? Dorothy said, oh no, what is it this time? No, no, said Dave, I'm fine, I'm fine. This is hypothetical. Hypothetically fine or hypothetically dying.

said Dorothy. Come on, said Dave, I'm serious. Cat Stephen, said Dorothy. Brian phoned you, said Dave. You've been talking to Brian. Two minutes later, Dave walked into his friend Kenny Wong's cafe, Wong's Scottish meat pies. Kenny was sitting at his cluttered desk halfway along the restaurant at the end of the counter.

He looked up when Dave came in. I'm working on my list already, he said. They phoned you, said. dropping onto the last counter's stool and spinning around. Yeah, both of them, said Kenny. Here's what I've got so far. He leaned over his desk and pushed a piece of paper across the countertop. Anya, said Dave?

What about Cat Stephen, said Kenny? But Dave was already at the door, his stool spinning at the counter. Morley was standing in front of the stove, working on a big pot of chili. It's for the wake, she said when Dave walked in the back door. I have it all worked out. We're going to play dead teen songs. Leader of the pack.

Last kiss. Tell Laura I love her. Unless, of course, you die in a snowstorm looking for a lost horse. Then we'll play the one by Michael Murphy. Wildfire, said Dave. Who called? Everyone, said Marley. Later that night, as they were lying in bed,

Dave dropped his book on the floor, pushed himself up on an elbow, and said, can I ask you something? Seriously. Morley was reading real simple magazine. She rested the magazine on her chest. Dave said, if you died, what am I supposed to do anyway? Do you want to be buried or what? Morley said, cremated. After that, I don't care. You can put me out with a recycling. Flush me down the toilet. I'm serious, said Dave. Morley turned her head and looked right at him. Me too, she said. She picked up her magazine.

I love this magazine, she said. End of conversation. He went to Kenny's for lunch. He sat at the counter, his usual stool at the end by Kenny's desk. If I die, said Dave, chasing a snow pea around his plate with his chopsticks. When you die, said Kenny. Whatever, said Dave. If I die, when I die, what's the difference?

acceptance said Kenny. Dave was in a state, no doubt about it, and the state was intensifying. On the weekend, he even talked to Mary Turlington. Or more to the point, Mary talked to him. They met in the grocery store by the yogurts. Lactose-free 2%, said Mary, without even saying hello. Thanks, said Dave, squinting at the tub.

She handed him. That was the one. Mary always made him feel like a child. How could she possibly need him? know more about his family's fridge than he did. Mary had moved on. I made our arrangements years ago, she said. Morley must have told her about Aunt Ginger's funeral. Dave was looking for more of the lactose-free yogurt. Mary said, over there. Then she said, you know the three most important things about burial? Dave stared at her blankly. Mary said, location, location, location. And so,

Dave bought a coffin. It's not altogether a bad decision. It was neither the most expensive nor the cheapest coffin. Pine, but red pine. Coffin that seemed to fit his station in the world. Dave began working on his eulogy the next day, at home at lunch. He got a paddle, lined paper out, and he worked on it at the kitchen table. He wrote his name at the top of the page, centered.

Then he skipped a line and he wrote he is. and he stared at the words, and then he crumpled the paper, and he threw it at the garbage, missed. He was one of the most, Dave's pen hovered over the page. One of the most, he crumpled that page and bounced it off the rim of the garbage. He started again, born in the village of Big Narrows, son of Charlie and Margaret, and one of the most forgiving, generous, remarkable, humble, humble. He was just finishing up the first page when the doorbell rang.

Two guys and blue overalls were standing on the stoop. They looked like roofers. The bigger guy did the talking. We got your coffin, said the bigger guy. There had been some misunderstanding. There's been a misunderstanding, said Dave. Where do you want your coffin, said the big guy. It had not occurred to Dave that he would be taking delivery of the coffin.

Who did you think was going to get it? said the big guy. Dave had them put the coffin in the garage. He covered it with a couple of blankets. Thank God no one was home. In his rush, he left the eulogy on the kitchen table. By the time he remembered the eulogy, he was back at work and Stephanie, home for study week, was reading it in disbelief. Who wrote this crud, she said it's upper.

Waving the eulogy in the air. They obviously never met you. Give me that, said Dave. He managed to get the coffin to the record store the next day before anyone saw it. There's a room over the store where he keeps stuff. Souvenirs mostly, pieces of paper from the days when he worked in the rock and roll business. Handwritten set lists. notes, letters, snapshots, some stage clothes, all manner of stuff.

An amazing collection, a memorabilia. Assembled partly for sentimental reasons, but mostly because he can't bear to throw anything out. It never occurred to him while he was squirreling the stuff away that it would be valuable one day. It's how he supports himself. Trading and selling pieces when he needs serious money or if someone seriously wants something. He figured he could keep the coffin upstairs with his stuff until he figured out what to do with it. But you try getting a coffin up a flight of stairs by yourself. And you tell me who you would call to help you do that sort of thing.

So Dave humped his coffin to the back of his store and he covered it with a blanket and he put some crates of records on top of it. And then one afternoon in March, on a rainy afternoon in March, in the middle of a week of rainy afternoons, a week when no one had been in in the store for what seemed like forever, Dave found himself looking at the coffin under the blanket and wondering what it would be like to be inside it. Not many people wonder about things like that. Fewer have the opportunity to find out. Once the thought entered Dave's mind, he couldn't get rid of it. Like I said, the store had been empty all week. He had way too much

time on his hands. He removed the milk crates of records, and he piled them on the floor. He ran his hand over the shiny coffin. It was actually a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, pine box to be sure, but a pine box with a luster of ebony. He was just about to climb in, just for a second, just to see. But then it occurred to him that it would hardly be an accurate experience lying there in his comfy sweater and cords. Surely, when he was laid out, it would be a more formal experience. He ran upstairs. There was a jacket up there that had once belonged to Eric Clapton. There was, in fact, a whole rack of clothing up there. A shirt, Frank Sinatra Jr. had left behind in a dressing room in the polka. A tie that had once belonged to Paul Anka.

Dave slipped off his t-shirt and put on the shirt, the tie, and Eric's jacket. and that's when he spotted Alice Cooper's makeup kit. A job worth doing, as Charlie used to say, is worth doing properly. Dave powdered his face. He looked in the mirror. He looked great. Which is to say, he looked dead. He went downstairs.

He ran back upstairs, grabbed some candles and ran back downstairs. He lifted the lid of the coffin and propped it up, checking the hinge to make sure it wouldn't slam shut. He lit the candles. He dimmed the lights. He put on some music. Edda James. At last.

He crawled into the box. Tumbled into it, actually. Bum first. There was not as much room in there as you might think. He had to squirm around awkwardly to arrange himself. In fact, it was pretty cramped.

But the silk lining was smooth and soft, and there was a nice layer of padding between him and the bottom of the casket. Hey, thought Dave, not bad. Quite comfortable, actually, peaceful. Dave folded his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes. He didn't actually fall asleep, but he wasn't wide awake either. He was somewhere in that foggy world between his sleep and awake, lying in the coffin with the candles flickering at each of the corners, lying there trying to get in touch with eternity when the front door opened and someone walked in the record's door. Dave thought he had locked the door. Dave was sure he had locked the door. Hello, said whoever it was.

Apparently not. Dave didn't move a muscle. Hello called the voice again. The voice sounded familiar. David called the voice. David, are you here? Mary Turlington. Mary Turlington had never been in Dave's record store. Uptight and sanctimonious, Mary Turlington wasn't interested in buying or even looking at anything that was used. Mary was suspicious of anyone who bought used goods. Mary preferred reproductions to antiques. Moment she stepped through the door at the vinyl cafe, Mary knew her doubts were justified.

It smelled funny in there, like incense or worse. There was suspicious music playing, the type of music that people play when they're up to no good. And it was dark. The place was giving Mary the creeps. Dave, she said, where was he anyway? And what did he do in this dusty, dark shop all day by himself? David, are you here? He must be at the back, she thought. Mary moved toward the back of the shop with hesitation. What could he be doing back there that he could couldn't do in the open. He could be doing any number of weird and perverted things back there. She caught sight of the candles, and against her better judgment, she walked toward the light.

That's when she spotted the coffin with a mannequin in it. Just the sort of childish display she would expect to Dave. She is getting closer now, and Dave is thinking, Blessed Mother of Jesus. He can hear her footsteps get. getting closer and closer, and then he can hear her stop abruptly. Blessed Mother of Jesus, said Mary. It wasn't a mannequin in the coffin. It was a body. Oh, my God, thought Dave. Oh, my God, said Mary.

Every nerve ending, and Mary's brain told her to get out of there and get out of there fast. But she couldn't help herself. She was drawn toward the casket. Don't move, thought Dave. Don't move a muscle, but he couldn't help himself. Dave opened one eye. It was the eye Mary was staring at. And then the body rose out of the casket.

Like a vampire in a horror movie. And the body said, Hello, Mary. And then the body took a step towards her. This is how it ends, thought Mary. Vampires? Then she hit the ground. The letter from Stephanie arrived the following week.

Dear Dad, Dave got it at lunchtime. He showed it to Morally after supper. Did you tell her to write this, said Dave? No, said Morley, I didn't. Dear Dad, Mom told me you've been worried about dying. She told me that's why you were writing your eulogy. I want to apologize for making fun of you. I'm sorry I laughed at you.

I'm sorry I made fun of it. When Paula's dad died, she had to talk at his funeral. I started wondering what I would say if I had to talk at yours. I decided I would tell people about the eye patch. Do you remember all that? I think I was about six. I don't even remember why I had to wear that stupid patch. All I remember was that Dr. Milne said I had to wear an eye patch and that I refused.

Nothing was going to make me wear that eye patch. I cried all the way home from the doctor's office. When we got into the house, you sat me down at the kitchen table. You pulled out two eyepatches, and you put the first one on over your own eye. You said we would have a deal. You said that I would wear my eye patch until Dr. Milne told me I could take it off, and you would wear yours until I told you to take it off. I said, but people are going to look at you funny.

And you said, well, if they do, I guess I can talk to you about it. You might know how that feels. Do you remember how we decorated them? I think you drew flowers on mine. I don't remember. But I remember I drew a huge, gross red eye on yours. And you wore it for a whole week before I let you take it off. You wore it to work.

and when you took the car to the garage and out to dinner at the Turlington's. I can't believe I made you do that. If I had to talk at your funeral, I'd tell people a story about the eyepatch, and then I'd tell them that that's the kind of dad you were, that you'd do anything for me and Sam, even if it made you look silly. I love you, Daddy. I am sorry, Steph. P.S., I don't want you to die.

If you die, I'm going to kill you. Dave took Stephanie's letter to the store. He keeps it in the drawer by the cash. He read it the other day at lunch. Sometimes when he reads it, it makes him happy. Sometimes it makes him cry. Mary hasn't been back to the store. Though she has been over to dinner,

and all in all, it was a successful evening. Dave still has the coffin. It's still in the back of the record store. There's a whole display of 45s in it. Teenage death songs. Thank you very much. That was Stuart McLean with Dave Biza Coffin. We recorded that story in Wakefield, Quebec in 2006.

We're going to take a short break now, but we'll be back in a couple of minutes with another Dave and Marley story. So stick around. Welcome back. We have another story for you now. Another story about, well, this is awkward, but another story about death. But don't worry, this is the final cafe. So they're funny stories, like hilarious stories, actually.

Everything and everyone is going to be okay. I promise. Hilarious stories about death could have actually been the title of today's podcast, but that probably wouldn't have been a good idea. Anyway, this is Stuart McLean with Dad. is dying. And I promise, it's funny. Most people will tell you that spring is the most reassuring of seasons. They will tell you that it's something about the renewal of the natural world,

the return of the sun, the songbirds of God's green garden that puts a spring into their step. This spring came to Dave differently than most. It came uncomfortably. Another spring, another year older. As the days lengthened, he began to feel listless. All Dave saw in the light of spring were new wrinkles. Rinkles made him worry. The worry made his stomach ache. He lost his appetite. He felt faint.

Before long, he was lost in a full-blown hypochondriical funk. Sneaking away to take his temperature. You're fine, said Morley. He didn't feel fine. And neither did Morley. An unexpected flurry of budget problems at work meant Morley was unexpected. unexpectedly busy, so busy that this spring Morley had no time for her garden, no time for her family,

and no time for herself. The only time she saw her neighbors was as she flew past them in her car. As May rolled into June, Morley was feeling a loss of connection with everything that mattered to her. It was 12-year-old Sam who stirred the wind that filled his parents' sails and pushed them from the torpor of this heavy spring into summer. But the wind that he stirred, the wind that would rescue his mother and father, almost shipwrecked him. Like all storms, no one noticed its first stirrings. It began one morning at breakfast, Sam came downstairs and found his father backing out the door with his dog, Arthur, and his arms. Arthur, looking limp and pretty much dead. What's the matter with Arthur, said Sam.

Sam standing on the bottom stair, dead still. himself, except for his heart. His heart was pounding. Morley was moving through the kitchen, grabbing her stuff, her purse, her briefcase, her keys. Where were her keys? She had them just a moment ago. Dave, where are my keys? Dave turning to answer, wax the dog's head against the doorframe. Keys are in your hand, he says. Morley looks down at her keys and screws her eyes shut. Sam, still standing on the stairs, still motionless, says it again. What's the matter with Arthur? Morley, who's collecting her lunch now doesn't stop to look at Sam. Morley says, I don't know, sweetie.

I'm taking him to the vet. It was one of those moments that begged for a timeout. One of those moments when Morley should have stopped, a moment when she should have taken some time with her son. She knew this even as she was trying to stuff her lunch into her briefcase. Stop, stop, slow down her heart was saying. Stop, said her heart, waving a red flag of warning. Late, said her head.

No time to stop, said her head. Go, go, go. You can deal with this later. Morley had been counting on getting to work early. She hadn't been planning on a run to the vet. But there was Dave coming back through the door. I started the car, he said, kissing her forehead. He's in the back.

Is he going to die? Said Sam. Sweetie, said Morley from across the room. He's getting old. He's going to die someday. That's when it began. That's when the wind began to feather the water of Sam's life. It began right then and there.

Sam standing on the bottom stair in his red Spider-Man sweatshirt, his jeans creeping up his legs, his hair uncombed, his sneakers undone. Sam standing on the bottom stair, staring at his mother as she's going out the front door. But that was just the first stirring. It was two hours later that the breeze settled in. It was an English class. Mrs. Esther Brooks asked Sam to read out loud, and Sam started to cry. Not out loud, sobbing, but tears running down both cheeks.

Mrs. Estherbrook said, Sam, what's wrong? Sam tried to say, my dog is sick, but instead a waffly sort of snort came out of his mouth, or his nose, actually. He snuffled, and he wiped his eyes, and by then everyone in the class, was staring at him. People in the front twisting in their chairs to get a good look. That thug Mark Portnoy smirking. Sam's friend Murphy looking horrified. Everyone staring at him and he was crying plain as day. No doubt about it. And Sam thought, I am too old to be crying about a sick dog. So he began to add it. He stared at Mrs. Esther Brooks, his bottom lip quivering, no words coming out as he

tried words out in his mind. My dog is dying, he tried. No. My dog died. Still saying nothing, still just sitting, sitting and staring at Mrs. Esther Brooks, and Mrs. Esther Brooks staring back at him. Sam, she said, he was biting his bottom lip. He was standing up. That was the beginning. When Sam stood up and everyone in the class was staring at him and he looked down at his shoes and he said, my dad is dying. Words spread like wildfire. By the middle of the afternoon, everybody had heard.

The wind hit Morley almost as soon as she got home. Morley wasn't home five minutes, and the doorbell was ringing, Mary Turlington standing on the stoop. Morley surprised to see her. They stared at each other, but only for the briefest moment, because after the briefest moment,

Mary burst into tears. Morley said, Mary, what is it? And she led her into the kitchen and they sat down and Mary wiped her eyes thinking damn, damn, damn, Mary thinking, get a grip. This isn't the time to come apart. Mary pulled herself together and she looked at Morley and she said, oh Morley, I just heard and she lost it again. And Morley, who had just got off the phone with a vet, who had just heard herself, looked across the table at her friend, Mary, she said, it's not for sure yet.

They did some tests, but they don't have the results yet. And even if he isn't, even if he doesn't, you know, Mary, he's getting old anyway. What, said Mary? I can never figure out his age, said Morley. You take the year and multiply it by seven,

don't you? Mary said, for God's sake, Morley, he's two years older than you. But Morley wasn't listening. Morley was still talking, they age faster than us, don't they? I mean, they don't live nearly as long. And Mary was thinking, I have to stay calm. My friend is losing it, I have to stay calm.

Morley, who had always been the rock of Gibraltar, was coming apart right in front of her. Why shouldn't she come apart? She had her right. Anyway, said Morley, standing up, walking over to the fridge. However you look at it, he is getting old. She'd taken out a bunch of carrots. Mary, she said, I knew he wasn't going to last forever. She brought the carrots to the table and she sat down.

She took a knife and she began to cut the greens off the carrots. Now, Morley wasn't doing this carrot thing because she needed cut carrots. Morley was doing it because she was worried about Mary. Mary seemed so fragile. Mary looked like she was going to cry again. Morley was thinking the carrots might distract her, calm her down. Quite frankly, said Morley standing up, carrying the handful of carrot greens to the sink. Quite frankly, said Morley, I'm okay with it.

I think it's going to be harder on the kids. I think the kids are closer to them than I am. It's understandable. For all intents and purposes, he's been around all their lives. I mean, she picked up the vegetable peeler and she tapped it against her forehead. He has, hasn't he? Morley was peeling the carrots as if she didn't have a care in the world. quite frankly she said it hasn't been easy these past few months

he's dropping hair all over the place he's shedding Mary and he started to drool and that's not the worst I tell you one thing I won't miss his breath honest to God sometimes he smells like something you'd find at the back of the fridge oh my God said Mary

to be perfectly honest said Morley handing Mary appealed Karen if I had a choice I'm not sure I'd do it again. Sam was late getting home from school that afternoon. On the way home from school, Murphy and Sam had gone to Snyders for ice cream. Give him more, whispered Murphy to the girl fixing Sam's cone. His dad's dying. The girl handed Sam the biggest ice cream cone he had ever seen,

and she wouldn't take his money. Wind began blowing through Dave's record store the next morning. neighbors started showing up. Carl Lobeer was first. Dave didn't see him come in. Dave had been taking his pulse. Hey, said Carl. Carl was standing by the doorway,

standing by the stuffed gorilla. Sixteen years, they had lived in the same neighborhood. Sixteen years, street corners and dinner parties. Twice when the Lobears went overseas, David babysat Carl's sourdough starter. Sixteen years, neighbors, and Carl had never been in Dave's store.

Not once, but there he was. Hey, said Carl. Hey, Carl, said Dave. Hey, said Carl. Carl was still standing by the door. Hey, said Carl. You look great, Dave. I don't feel so good, said Dave.

Carl hadn't moved. I'm not contagious, said Dave. You can come in. Oh, God, Dave, said Carl. Carl rushed up to the counter. I wasn't thinking that, Dave. No, really, said Carl, looking right into Dave's eyes.

you look like you're doing okay. Dave's stomach was aching again. Carl was holding a little package under his arm. Really, said Carl, you look great. They both noticed Carl's package at the same time. Hey, said Carl. He put the package on the counter beside the fish bowl a multicolored record centers and he pushed it towards Dave.

He nodded his head, encouragingly. It's for you, Dave. Hey, said Dave. Hey, said Carl. Dave opened the package. It was a little glass bottle, a green powder. Blue, green algae, said Carl beaming. Our immortal ancestor, Dave, there are more powerful nutrients packed into that little jar than in any food known to man. There's a lot of power in that jar, Dave. Carl was nodding his head vigorously now. Carl was agreeing with himself. God bless you, Dave, said Carl, and then he turned and laughed. Actually, he turned and bolted.

Dave phoned morally as soon as he was alone. Carl Loughbier was just here, he said. He gave us a jar. Dave held the jar up and he read the label to himself, Spirulina. He gave us a jar of spirulina. There was a long pause. He said, me neither.

But you might know it by its other name. Pond scum. That morning at Sam's school, morning announcements included a moment of silence for those we know who are struggling with illness. Sam, who had his head bowed and his eyes. eyes closed, could feel the weight of his classmate stares. Everyone knew the morning thought was about him. On his way out of the classroom at lunch, Mrs. Esther Brooks touched his head affectionately, a sort of pat. Sam saw Mark Portnoy watching as she did it, and he pulled away, and he ran his

hand through his hair, musseling it, rubbing off the teacher germs. On his way home, Sam went to Snyders again. He waited for the same girl, and then he stood in front of her, adopting a look of great sadness, his head hanging. I don't know what I want, he said glumly. Nothing really appeals to me anymore. He walked out of Snyders with a bigger cone than the day before. He almost walked right into Doreen Lamb Stillwell. Doreen, a notorious gossip had made it her business to be there to bump into Sam. Sam, I am going to ask you some difficult questions. I need to know these things, Sam, so I can help. Sam nodding earnestly, licking his cone. Sam said Doreen, are there headaches?

Yes, nodded Sam, licking his cone still. Nausea. Yes, he nods again. Vomiting. Sam, who hasn't spoken a word, continues to nod, continues to work at his ice cream. Sam, is there incontinence? Sam had no idea what incontinence was. He took a break from the ice cream. Yes, exactly, said Sam.

It's the painful kind. Sam couldn't help himself. Once he started, he couldn't stop that. And you never know when it's going to come, he said. Sometimes in the car. Sometimes at supper. Oh, my God, said Doreen. The vet called that night.

She wanted to keep Arthur over the weekend. She had tried a few things. She wanted to watch how he made out. On Saturday, Sam was invited to sleep over at Murphy's house. How's your dad asked Murphy's mom. It was far safer asking Sam. than Morley. Morley obviously didn't want to talk about it.

Some people did, some people didn't. It was her right. Murphy's mom had asked Morley when she had picked Sam up and dropped off a spinach lasagna. How is he? She had said quietly, earnestly. Who, said Morley.

Your husband, said Murphy's mom, immediately wishing she hadn't opened her mouth. Dave, said Morley, waving her hand dismissively. How was Dave? Dave, who that very morning had dropped an open can of sardine, on the kitchen rug, sometimes said Morley, he just gets to be a little much.

Murphy's mom wasn't going to ask Morley again, but Sam's suffering started on Monday. Began innocuously enough on the front steps of the school, Jordy, a boy in grade two, waiting there for Sam. Jordy was holding onto his mother's hand, and when Sam arrived, Jordy's mother pushed Jordy forward. Jordy has something he wants to give you, Sam, she said. Jordy handed Sam a plastic bag. There was a wild mushroom lasagna in there and a book.

The book was called Comfort in the Arms of the Angels. Sam looked at the book and then at Jordy's mother. Jordy's mother started to cry, oh dear, she said, wiping her eyes. Oh, dear, she said, and then she picked up her son and she ran away. Leaving Sam standing on the steps holding the lasagna, other kids staring at him, feeling for the first time, the force of the wind. Not Dave, however, Dave was feeling much better. Dave couldn't have been happier. That very morning, Dave had run into Mary Turlington. Now, Mary and Bert Turlington live two

doors down from Dave and Morley. Mary's an accountant, and she and Dave rubbed each other the wrong way the moment they met. Something about Mary's politics, something about the way she dressed, the condescending way she talked about Dave's record store that bugged Dave. It was the way Dave seemed to glide through life without trying, that he didn't dress like a grown-up, that he made his living playing records for heaven's sakes. That was it. He played. He didn't work. That's what irked Mary. Dave said Mary when they bumped into each other that Monday. You look great. Really? said Dave. Great, said Mary, fabulous. It had been happening all weekend. Everyone Dave met had something nice to say. First, he thought it was no more than that.

were just being nice, but Mary Churlington was never nice to him. He must be looking good. There was something to Carl Lobier's herbal tonic, after all. At lunch, he doubled the dose. When he walked back to work, there was a new spring to his step. All afternoon, he kept slipping in and out of the washroom, staring at himself in the mirror. And while Dave preoccupied himself with a mirror, Morley was on the phone dealing with Bruce Daughtery, Bruce lives in the neighborhood. He works for the telephone company, but Bruce's brother-in-law runs a funeral parlor. Somewhere out of town.

Bruce's brother-in-law said the best thing Bruce could do for Morley and Dave was to help them make arrangements in advance. People don't like talking about it, said Bruce's brother-in-law, but it's easier to face it sooner than later. They'll try to duck it. Don't let them. Bruce is so shy that he has a hard time ordering in a restaurant, was vibrating with anxiety, when he finally picked up the phone. So overwrought that it took him ten awkward minutes to get to the point.

Oh, said Morley, when she finally got it, that's very sweet, Bruce, that's very thoughtful. But a funeral just wouldn't be our style. I know some people do that sort of thing, but quite frankly, I don't want to spend any more money on him. Perhaps, said Bruce, screwing up all his courage, following his instructions, you might consider cremation?

What? said Morley, and put him in. and earn Bruce, it would be just one more damn thing I'd have to dust. We love them and everything, but when the time comes, we were thinking we'd just put them in the backyard. It'd be good for the roses. Morley put the phone down and smiled, thinking about how kind people could be. She sat at her desk, fiddling with a paperclip, all these neighbors concerned about a dog, about her family's little problems. Just that morning, Mary Turlington had brought over a spinach lasagna.

Morley was feeling reconnected, feeling a lot better than Bruce Daughery who had to report to his brother-in-law. That's ridiculous, said the brother-in-law. Go see the husband. Bruce set off to see Dave. He took along a seafood lasagna,

stopping for a drink to fortify his courage. He says he doesn't need that sort of thing he reported two hours later. Denial, said the brother-in-law. Next stage is anger. He got a little prickly, said Bruce. He asked me if I was on commission. Good, said the brother-in-law.

He's moving. Acceptance is just a few stages away. Go back. Bruce wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. He went back. But he didn't go back with his heart and soul. He gave up almost as soon as he'd begun, his third pitch. I have to go, he said.

By the way, Dave, you're looking great. I know, said Dave. That was the same day Morley had lunch with Mary Turlington and said, I think if he goes, I am going to get a replacement. But this time I'm going to get a female. That was the day Stephanie phoned home from university and said, Mom, the sweetest thing just happened. I just got a card from the lobears, said Stephanie.

It said, thinking of you in these difficult times. Stephanie was in the middle of exams. It was also the worst. day in Sam's life. Mrs. Esther Brooks kept smiling at it, but was so obvious everybody could see it. Kids were starting to lose patience. Even Murphy rolled his eyes. Sam was starting to feel guilty, and his guilt was heightened by his anxiety about Arthur. The vet was supposed to phone that day with word, and now Sam felt anxious and guilty about feeling anxious, and then on his way to music class, Mrs. Esther Brooks held him back. Sam, she said, they want to see you in the office.

office. When he got to the office, Sam had to sit on the bench in the hall for 15 minutes in plain view, everybody walking by him, staring at him like he was in trouble. And if you thought that was bad, that was nothing. Because when they came and got him, it was a lady called Mrs. Gillespie. Mrs. Gillespie came and she took him to the counseling room. Mrs. Gillespie was a counselor. I want you to tell me about your father, she said. Sam started to cry. Sam couldn't take any longer. Not my father, he said, my dog. Your what? said Mrs. Gillespie. My dad isn't dying, said Sam. My dog is. He's in bad shape, said Mrs. Gillespie to Mrs. Esther Brooks 45 minutes later. He's in denial. He won't even admit his father's sick. He says it's the dog.

What are you going to do? I'll see him tomorrow. In the meantime, pay as much attention to him as you can. At the end of the day, Mrs. Esther Brooks made a point of giving Sam another pat on the back, Mark Portnoy watching again. Sam couldn't stand it anymore. He had to set the record straight. He went right home. He went right home planning to tell his mom. But when he got there, his dad was already home. Dave was in the backyard with Morley, and the barbecue was going, and the Turlington's were there. And Sam looked at his mom. mom, she was laughing about something.

He hadn't seen her so relaxed in months. His father was putting burgers on the barbecue, and Mary Turlington was helping. And Arthur was there. Arthur was home. Arthur was bounding toward him. Sam started to cry. Is he okay? said Sam. He's pretty okay for a 14-year-old dog, said Morley.

Can I take him for a walk, said Sam. This wasn't where he had to set things right. everything was already right here. He had to set things right at school. He did it first thing the next morning. My dog's going to be all right, he said to Mrs. Esther Brooks as soon as he saw her. Your dog or your dad said Mrs. Estherbrooks. Yes, said Sam. He isn't going to die after all. He's all better now. It wasn't so bad as we thought. They gave him pills. It was just worms. Words spread through the neighborhood like wildfire. Thank you very much.

That was Dad is Dying. We recorded that story at the Living Arts Center in Mississauga in 2003. All right, that's it for today. But we'll be back here next week with two more Dave and Morley stories. Halfway there, Dave's train passed a train coming from where he was heading. Exactly. Dave pressed his face to the car window and saw what he didn't want to see. Sam and his buddies pressed against him.

their window and they were jumping up and down and waving at him. Why me, Lord, said Dave. Dave didn't know what to do. Should he go back again like the boys had? Were they waiting on the platform for him to appear? Or should he stay put? Someone had to stay put. What would they be thinking? Who knows what a 10-year-old thinks? Especially when they're five of them. Dave decided to wait. He waited for three trains. Nothing happened. Now he knew the boys were waiting for him,

but he knew they knew he was waiting for them. He felt like his head was going to explode. It was a nightmare. That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the apostrophe, podcast network. The recording engineer is Greg DeClude, and I suspect his lovely wife, Sandra, has also had a few days where she's wondered if it's time to put him down. And maybe next time

she'll get a female. Theme music is my... Theme music is my... It was not a bad idea. Sandy, I can really see it. Theme music is by Danny Michelle, and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloot, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now, especially you, Greg.