The Bruce Report

I suffered a shock the other day: A terrible, existential, psychic shock from which I will never fully recover. Fifty people congratulated me for something I did not do. Worse, they changed my name and called me “Poppy”. Naturally, I wondered, who is this guy running around pretending to be me.? What horrible doppelganger has replaced me in the eyes of my family, friends and associates? What fiend has executed the perfect, ultimate identity theft?

 

“Hello, honey?” It was my wife phoning from Halifax’s IWK maternity ward.
“Hi. . .what’s up?”

“You have a grandson.”

“I don’t remember ordering one of those. How much does it cost?”

“Yeah. . .that’s hilarious.”

“I thought so. . .”

“Okay, shut up laughing boy. . .His name is Euan Bruce Thompson and he is 7 lbs 13 ozs heavy, and 21 and one-quarter inches long.”

“Is that good?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I just want to make sure the merchandise is top quality.”

“Just get your ass down to Halifax, okay Poppy?”

 

There it was. . .that name. Who the hell was Poppy? Some weird old fart in sensible shoes, sporting a mop of thinning silver-grey hair? Some burping, wheezing hunchback, spouting merry bromides at the first sign of trouble? “Don’t worry, young ‘uns, when you get to be my age, there’s always a silver lining. It’s what I always say. . .early to bed, early to rise catches the worm. . .or, um, something like that. . .which reminds me, pass the laxative, would you?”

 

For me, walking into any hospital – even one as clean and modern as the IWK – is like walking into an old folks’ home. At any moment, I expect some anxious nurse to interpret the confused look on my face as some age-related dementia and promptly whisk me off to a common room where octogenarians play poker for match sticks.

 

“Can I help you?” The nurse eyed me with suspicion.

“Yes. . .I’m here about a baby.”

“You’re in the wrong place.”

“Isn’t this where you make them?”

“Are you trying to be funny?

“That depends. . .is it working?”

“Just listen carefully. . .take the blue line on the floor down the hall until it meets the yellow line. Then take the yellow line to where it intersects with the red line. Turn right, not left. I repeat, turn RIGHT. Then proceed to the purple line, and take that to the junction with the green line. Four or five feet after that, you’ll come to a bank of elevators. Take one to the fifth floor. Got it?”

 

An hour later, my canteen was bone dry and I was beginning to wonder whether search and rescue would find me before my granola ran out. So, like any intrepid explorer in undiscovered country, I decided to check my email. The messages hit me one by one.

 

“Congratulations, Poppy!”

“You’re not as old as you think, Poppy!”

“You’ve still got plenty of miles left, Poppy!”

“Kudos, Poppy, you deserve it!”

“Frankly, I didn’t think you’d last this long, Poppy old boy!”

 

Again, who was this Poppy, and how did he steal my Internet account? Maybe he was more cunning than I had originally conjured. Maybe he was some cowboy-boot-wearing smart-ass with a penchant for telling bad jokes at inappropriate times. Maybe he was some middle-aged prankster suffering from a compulsion to confuse, perplex and otherwise irritate everyone around him.

 

Eventually I found my way out of the wilderness and into room 558, where my beloved daughter and her fiancé were reclining in almost sacred repose. After hours of labour, Jessica appeared beatific. “Go on, then, hold your grandson,” she instructed.

 

In my arms, Euan appeared impossibly handsome and preternaturally strong. And, judging from the size of his feet, I reckoned he’d be either an NBA all-star or an Olympic swimmer. Maybe both. Why not?

 

And then he opened his eyes, squirmed, smiled, and gurgled.

 

“It’s gas,” said my wife.

“Are you kidding?” I snapped. “The boy simply knows his Poppy.”

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