Russian in the Park
The Bold Acting Newsletter, Issue #009 -- Sunday, June 4th 2023
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And now for this week’s newsletter …
Russian in the Park
I run through the meadow at the top of High Park. The same meadow where in 2019 there was the world’s most annoying portrait photographer (To My Glorious Self Episode 15 — Land Acknowledgement). Near where Kenneth Zeller, a high school teacher from nearby Western Tech was murdered in 1985 by five of his students because he was gay. Every five minutes I drop and give me 15. I promise myself that I’m going to do 100 pushups a day until I can do 200 pushups a day.
I pull over to the side of the single-track trail to let a shirtless runner about ten years older than me go past in the other direction. We wave to each other. I think, man, I’d love to look as good as he does when I’m his age.
It’s the rearing up that hurts the ego. As I go from a plank to heaving one leg forward and underneath my chest, then pushing up with said leg to allow the other leg to follow so that I am now standing I am keenly aware that from behind especially it must be an awkward sight. Like watching a giraffe get up.
An eastern-European voice asks me how many I can do. It’s the shirtless runner from four minutes ago. I say 15. And he says he can do 30 but not in a braggy way. He says he runs here all the time. That this park means everything to him. He lives in a two-bedroom apartment in the neighbourhood abutting the park on the north side.
I am Boris.
I’m Jason.
We shake hands.
How old are you Boris?
72.
Daaaaaammmmmmn, girl! I think. 72. Shiiiit. Thought you were way younger.
Boris has been in Toronto for twenty years. His son, now 35, tells him the best thing he ever did was move to Canada.
Where are you from?
Moscow.
Up until last year Boris wasn’t so sure. His whole life was in Moscow. He had friends, an apartment, a job. He loved the city. But since the war he thanks God he is in Canada.
I don’t know for sure but I think many of us perceive this to be Russia’s war. When it’s not. It’s Putin’s. But nuance is hard so we paint with broad strokes. All Russians must be bad. All Russians must be anti-Ukraine. It can't be so simple. When I had my basement done late last year it was Ukrainians and Russians that did all the work. They didn’t seem to be fighting. The only ones to remark on it were the Canadian HVAC guys. For Russians and Ukrainians in Canada it must be like Americans and Canadians living abroad. If Trump invades Canada when next he’s El Presidente (or a proxy even worse than the Orange Emperor) it’s not suddenly America’s war. We can’t account for hundreds of millions of minds.
Our perceptions are formed by scant headlines. We’re too anxious to read down to the end of the article.
I ask Boris if he’s a vegetarian.
No.
Do you drink?
No. Not for twenty years.
Hhhm. You came to Canada and stopped drinking.
In Russia it is tradition.
So I’ve heard. Do you have a pension?
A small one.
So he doesn’t have to worry about money … much. Are you married?
I have wife, he says rather balefully.
Married people apparently live longer. And yet one must ask if the goal of life is the quantity of it or the quality.
Are you a good sleeper, Boris?
I am asleep every night at 10 and wake-up at six.
How much do you eat?
I cut back. It’s all about calories. And genetics only plays 15-20% of equation, he says.
I’ve got to get business cards I think. I’m down near the pond now squeezing out my last twenty pushups that gets me to 100. I should have given Boris my number. We could run together. Or maybe just meet in the meadow and spot each other. God he looked good. He said his wife laughs at him for all of his worrying about his health.
I wonder if having someone make fun of you helps in the long run.
Last year I was in the mix for the latest Kiefer Sutherland show. The role I was up for was a rightwing podcast host. How much fun would that be? To play a really bad bad-guy. The kind we all rail against. The unequivocal Alex Jonsey-type of a-hole.
There was no part of me that wouldn’t want to sink my teeth into such a role. No part of me that would judge a man like that. First and foremost the man I’d be playing is a fictional character. Secondly, it’s not for me the actor to judge others or their ideologies. I do that plenty in real life. But when I’m acting it isn’t about real life. It’s about something closer to the truth.
When I acted in commercials (I stopped counting at 200) I never didn’t love the clear hierarchy of the medium. It wasn’t about the actor. It was about the beer, the car, the incontinence products, the salad dressing, the insurance. It took the pressure off. So much of my life is me focussing on myself. For a day I got paid to focus on a bag of shredded cheese instead. What a relief.
Other’s perceptions is that an actor sells out when they shill. That wasn’t my truth. I got to afford to be a stay-at-home dad AND pay for everything. In other words, I got real lucky.
I have a reason to keep running. So that I might meet up with a septuagenarian from Moscow. Maybe we can go for tea. Or stop off at the Rabba across the street and pound protein bars together.
Normally I spin on my spin bike in my bedroom in front of the Criterion Channel. Today I did pushups in the dirt and made a new friend. Fuck yeah. I was reminded to be thankful we are not at war, we aren’t ruled by a despot (not yet Pierre) but that we must remain vigilant.
Perception are stories we chose to tell ourselves. Like that Kenneth Zeller didn’t deserve to live. Like that 140 million Russians agree with their leader.
Like I’m bad at running.
Actually I really do think I’m bad at it. But as long as there is a meadow there I’m gonna run through it. Every meadow needs its giraffe.