It was getting late, but he was having trouble sleeping. Dawn's piercing light shot off Toronto's friendly skyline and burrowed through his bedroom's sheer drapes. Never thick enough to block the sun, but too thick to let in a breeze. His mom had bought them at Bed Bath & Beyond.
“Ma, how many times do I have to tell you? We out here now! We don't need to shop at discount stores!”
“Aubrey, I'm sensible. And you should be too.” She had patted him lightly on his sweatered midsection, an innocent reminder to lay off the Tim Horton's.
As he shifted and crossed to the other side of the bed, he noticed it was cold. The woman who'd gone home with him the night before? Gone. All they'd done was neck lightly before he had fallen into a fit of petulant weeping. He didn't want to move too fast, he'd said. Why leave? Stay the night. I'll make you nutbread in the morning.
“Nutbread?” she'd said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah! It's my Nana's recipe. The secret? She uses apple sauce instead of butter!”
She'd turned over to face the wall. Hmph, he'd thought. I hate being the big spoon.
But now she was gone. And not even a trace or a note had been left behind. He grabbed his Blackberry from the nightstand and scrolled through his recent text messages. Nana. Mom. Lawyer. No response yet from Kendrick and Rocky about that summer kickball league, but they were both busy with their albums. It was no big. He didn't mind. He held onto the dented plastic for a long time, debating who he could contact. He knew it was early but someone had to be up. Then a bright flash.
hey brutha
who is this i'm on a diff blackberry
rob
rob who
rob zombie
shit really? dude i loved that 99 problems video you was in
nah jk it's rob ford
His face fell. Not again. It was only a matter of time before the standing mayor of Toronto, and documented cracksmoker, asked for a feature on his album. Again.
It'd been part of Ford's Revive Toronto project. The mayor even name-dropped him in a televised press conference. “Let's work together to get Toronto's biggest stars to work on Drake's album—give the city the international lift it needs. Bieber, the entire Maple Leafs lineup, Rob Ford. (That last one is me.)”
A reporter stood up. “Sir, how do you suppose this scheme is going to lift Toronto from its economic delinquency? Shouldn't we be working on financial reform? Cutting programs? Stabilizing city spending?”
“Drake. Album.” Ford then violently threw his microphone to the floor of the podium, which was just a patch of wet straw in a barn where the press conference was being held. As all Canadians know, fussiness is for hosers.
oh hey sup ford
u kno wut i want [thumbs up emoji]
i can't do that, rob
i am learning how to rap rhymes [sunglasses emoji]
do u have n e idea who is on this record? rocky jay big sean nicki. ain't no mayors.
u underestimate me [crying emoji]
bruh nah
goodnight aubrey
Aubrey couldn't shake the weirdness of the conversation. He pulled the covers over his head, tossed the Blackberry into his “No Moms” drawer (where he kept illicit paraphernalia), and fell asleep for a few more hours. He awoke to an urgent buzzing.
A NOTIFICATION, the email began, FOR AUBREY “DRAEK” GRAHAM OF TORONTO, ONTARIO, CANADA, EARTH. ON ORDINANCE OF THE GOVERNMENT OF CANADA, YOU ARE BEING ASKED TO EVACUATE. YOUR PASSPORT, AS OF TOMORROW, HAS BEEN NULLIFIED. THIS IS YOUR FIRST OF NINE WARNINGS THAT YOU WILL RECEIVE THROUGHOUT THE DAY. WE ARE ASKING YOU NICELY. PLEASE. AS IS CANADIAN TRADITION, WE WILL NOW SAY PLEASE AGAIN. PLEASE. YOU HAVE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. PLEASE.
At the bottom of the email, there was no signature or indication of its sender.
Only the peace-out emoji.
TO BE CONTINUED.
