AT FIVE O’CLOCK, I walk out of my room and yell, “Nana, it’s time!” But Nana doesn’t hear me. She’s sound asleep on the couch, her head nuzzled into her crotch. I go back into the room and come out with a bag of VitaLife LiverBiscuits. I rustle the bag loudly to make sure she can hear me. Nana stirs and groans as she stretches her old muscles. Then there’s a loud thud as she jumps off the couch and the distinct pitter patter of her toenails on the linoleum floor. As she hobbles over to the back of the trailer, her nose is raised towards the ceiling. Her nostrils flare like a manatee’s.

TED SULLIVAN STOOD ON THE MAKESHIFT STAGE, anxiously waiting for the high-pitch crackle of the microphone to die down. Were his hands shaking? Of course they were. Was he sweating profusely? Who wouldn’t be? The flex room at the Bessborough Presbyterian Church was packed. The six rows of chairs he’d set up earlier in the day with Debbie White, Bessborough Poet Society President, were full of butts. At least 60 butts. So many butts that he’d had to go out to buy more coffee and biscuits at the Sobey’s around the corner, delaying the start of the readings by over 15 minutes. Had this turned the crowd against him? Would they hold him responsible for the delay? Maybe. No shit his hands were shaking. This was The Real Deal.