Sunday, December 6, 2009
News
To all my followers, of which there are none: The Delivering of Food will appear in the inaugural edition of Bananafish Magazine in January, 2010. Stay tuned- ha!- for a link.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
How to count directionally, by Art.
Art was informed that he needed money. He received a Government issued letter that read:
Dear Art,
You need money. You have five hundred words to get some.
Warm Regards,
The Government
Art knew he was fucked. He was a painter of little talent. But it's all he really knew how to do. He lived in a square apartment, somewhere east of the centre of town, which is irrelevant to his plight, but important if only for geological reference. He once studied urban planning.
Art is easily distracted. His numerous half done paintings showcase this. Most of them are attempts at large office buildings, small inner-city parks, and tragic car accidents at intersections. He conceives his ideas from his balcony on the fourth floor. But the Macdonald's at the corner of Vancouver and Quadra partially blocks the west side of one of the streets, thus impeding some of the potential gore of tragic car accidents at intersections.
But what about money? Art had never contemplated money. He'd never needed it. As he studied this he wondered how he got by every day. Where did his food come from? Why was there always toilet paper in the bathroom? How did he have a place to live?
Art noticed the aging geranium on the fifth row of the west facing shelving unit. He should water it. Art paced about the apartment for an hour. He sat randomly in a chair. He moved some magazines from the coffee table to the banister between the kitchen and living room. He showered. And then he made bread.
Money. There it was again! Art couldn't figure out why he kept thinking about it. Had his mother called? Would money make him sleep easier at night? “What is money”, he said to the most eastern wall of his apartment.
Art heard his own voice. It disturbed him. So he turned on the radio located to the north of the television. He put on a talk show. Art decided that listening to talk-radio and talking to oneself at the same time was much like a conversation. This soothed the sudden anxiety he got when he was thinking about...?
He left the building and went for a walk. About three blocks in, to the exact southeast of the MacDonald's, he found twenty dollars near a bus stop. He picked it up, examined its texture, and licked it. The taste was sour and a bit dirty. He laughed as he thought of the taste as the “sweat of the earth.” Art put the cash in his pocket. After completing the walk he went home.
Art decided he should paint. He'd been avoiding it all day. He sat down at his easel and arranged his paints. And then picked a medium width brush and the colour green. He removed a small paper-like document from his pocket, tacked it to the wall with a sewing needle, and painted the most glorious painting of the number six.
Dear Art,
You need money. You have five hundred words to get some.
Warm Regards,
The Government
Art knew he was fucked. He was a painter of little talent. But it's all he really knew how to do. He lived in a square apartment, somewhere east of the centre of town, which is irrelevant to his plight, but important if only for geological reference. He once studied urban planning.
Art is easily distracted. His numerous half done paintings showcase this. Most of them are attempts at large office buildings, small inner-city parks, and tragic car accidents at intersections. He conceives his ideas from his balcony on the fourth floor. But the Macdonald's at the corner of Vancouver and Quadra partially blocks the west side of one of the streets, thus impeding some of the potential gore of tragic car accidents at intersections.
But what about money? Art had never contemplated money. He'd never needed it. As he studied this he wondered how he got by every day. Where did his food come from? Why was there always toilet paper in the bathroom? How did he have a place to live?
Art noticed the aging geranium on the fifth row of the west facing shelving unit. He should water it. Art paced about the apartment for an hour. He sat randomly in a chair. He moved some magazines from the coffee table to the banister between the kitchen and living room. He showered. And then he made bread.
Money. There it was again! Art couldn't figure out why he kept thinking about it. Had his mother called? Would money make him sleep easier at night? “What is money”, he said to the most eastern wall of his apartment.
Art heard his own voice. It disturbed him. So he turned on the radio located to the north of the television. He put on a talk show. Art decided that listening to talk-radio and talking to oneself at the same time was much like a conversation. This soothed the sudden anxiety he got when he was thinking about...?
He left the building and went for a walk. About three blocks in, to the exact southeast of the MacDonald's, he found twenty dollars near a bus stop. He picked it up, examined its texture, and licked it. The taste was sour and a bit dirty. He laughed as he thought of the taste as the “sweat of the earth.” Art put the cash in his pocket. After completing the walk he went home.
Art decided he should paint. He'd been avoiding it all day. He sat down at his easel and arranged his paints. And then picked a medium width brush and the colour green. He removed a small paper-like document from his pocket, tacked it to the wall with a sewing needle, and painted the most glorious painting of the number six.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The Haircut
I hadn’t looked at my new haircut in about ten minutes. I went to the bathroom. I’d just got to the pub. I looked at myself in the mirror and stuck my neck out like a chicken- I read somewhere this makes you look younger. I turned to the side and admired my profile. I decided I was irresistible.
I went to the bar. I waited for one of the waitresses to talk to me. Olivia smiled. She said, “You got a haircut." I told her I got them all cut- I got that one from my Grandfather.
Olivia emptied a few mugs of flat beer. Then she walked away. I said hello to Rob. He’s from Scotland. And he’s balding. I must have appeared like Jesus before him. Rob didn’t have much too say other than, “how you doing?” I said I was all right. I was playing it cool.
I turned around and faced the keno screen. The regulars lose a lot of money to it. I could see them clutching tickets in their hands, crumpled, and sweaty.
I’m too good for gambling. I pretend to play by picking up stray tickets from the floor. I say things like, “Darn, not a winner”, and destroy my ticket in haste. Then I throw the pieces towards the bin. The gamblers like seeing other people lose as it justifies their plight. I fake gamble for them because I’m a humanitarian, a real people person.
The mumbling drunk at the corner of the bar ordered an Irish Car Bomb. He had a full neat whiskey too. He was out of it. He fell off his stool and popped right back up. There was a mixture of laughter and concern. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, nodded, and got another pint.
The bartender, Tim, told a story about Roger- he was in earlier. Everyone started to make fun of Roger. Then they talked about him nicely in case he was still lurking around. They all looked over their shoulders. It got quiet for a second.
Roger told me once that he looks after his dying mother. He says the family is worth a lot of money. I think he’s waiting around for the Will. So does everyone else. He’s never had a job in his life. He’s also adopted.
A guy named John paid his bill. He got assistance from Rob because he couldn’t read it. He paid with a hundred. I watched Tim give him his change. He’d spent sixty bucks. I didn’t notice if he tipped. He went and had a conversation with a vacant table. We all figured he had a half-sack before he got here.
I was fishing for old keno tickets near the exit when John finally left. He had a joint in his mouth and walked into the door while trying to get a lighter out of his pocket. I thought he could do with a haircut.
I asked for a pint and played a round of “Darn, not a winner.” Norm started talking to Rob. Norm is a mechanic. Rob used to be a mechanic. Listening to Norm speak is like listening to the narration of an educational film about geological processes.
Norm was wearing a hat. It said Ford on it. He talked dryly about radiators and fuel injection. Rob couldn’t shake Norm. He was stuck with him for a while.
###
I paid with my credit card. It didn’t work. I used a gift certificate instead. I tipped with quarters and nickels. I noticed the sole of my left shoe had come apart from its heal. I still had a pint coming.
The place started to empty. Most of the regulars had paid. Some promised to pay the next day. There is a ledge where unpaid tabs go. It’s called the Wall of Shame. I was on there once.
My eyes were getting heavy. I wasn’t sure why. I’d slept till noon. My beer spilled a little when I moved to a barstool.
It was after last call but I hung around with Tim. He filled my beer to make up for the spill. Olivia sat down at the bar to do her cash-out. I waited for her to talk to me. She kept counting her money.
I rolled up my sleeves so my tattoos were visible. I’d heard somewhere that girls like tattoos. I talked to Tim. I spoke louder and slower than usual. Tim asked me to repeat what I said a few times. Olivia moved to table nine.
Tim asked me to finish my beer. I drank it quickly. I got some on my shirt but I don’t think Tim or Olivia noticed. I went to the handicapped bathroom. I forgot to wash my hands when I was finished. My jacket had fallen off the stool. I picked it up and put it on. The lights were turned off and I had a smoke on the front steps. It was cold out. Tim locked up while Olivia got in his car and then it started to rain.
I went to the bar. I waited for one of the waitresses to talk to me. Olivia smiled. She said, “You got a haircut." I told her I got them all cut- I got that one from my Grandfather.
Olivia emptied a few mugs of flat beer. Then she walked away. I said hello to Rob. He’s from Scotland. And he’s balding. I must have appeared like Jesus before him. Rob didn’t have much too say other than, “how you doing?” I said I was all right. I was playing it cool.
I turned around and faced the keno screen. The regulars lose a lot of money to it. I could see them clutching tickets in their hands, crumpled, and sweaty.
I’m too good for gambling. I pretend to play by picking up stray tickets from the floor. I say things like, “Darn, not a winner”, and destroy my ticket in haste. Then I throw the pieces towards the bin. The gamblers like seeing other people lose as it justifies their plight. I fake gamble for them because I’m a humanitarian, a real people person.
The mumbling drunk at the corner of the bar ordered an Irish Car Bomb. He had a full neat whiskey too. He was out of it. He fell off his stool and popped right back up. There was a mixture of laughter and concern. I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, nodded, and got another pint.
The bartender, Tim, told a story about Roger- he was in earlier. Everyone started to make fun of Roger. Then they talked about him nicely in case he was still lurking around. They all looked over their shoulders. It got quiet for a second.
Roger told me once that he looks after his dying mother. He says the family is worth a lot of money. I think he’s waiting around for the Will. So does everyone else. He’s never had a job in his life. He’s also adopted.
A guy named John paid his bill. He got assistance from Rob because he couldn’t read it. He paid with a hundred. I watched Tim give him his change. He’d spent sixty bucks. I didn’t notice if he tipped. He went and had a conversation with a vacant table. We all figured he had a half-sack before he got here.
I was fishing for old keno tickets near the exit when John finally left. He had a joint in his mouth and walked into the door while trying to get a lighter out of his pocket. I thought he could do with a haircut.
I asked for a pint and played a round of “Darn, not a winner.” Norm started talking to Rob. Norm is a mechanic. Rob used to be a mechanic. Listening to Norm speak is like listening to the narration of an educational film about geological processes.
Norm was wearing a hat. It said Ford on it. He talked dryly about radiators and fuel injection. Rob couldn’t shake Norm. He was stuck with him for a while.
###
I paid with my credit card. It didn’t work. I used a gift certificate instead. I tipped with quarters and nickels. I noticed the sole of my left shoe had come apart from its heal. I still had a pint coming.
The place started to empty. Most of the regulars had paid. Some promised to pay the next day. There is a ledge where unpaid tabs go. It’s called the Wall of Shame. I was on there once.
My eyes were getting heavy. I wasn’t sure why. I’d slept till noon. My beer spilled a little when I moved to a barstool.
It was after last call but I hung around with Tim. He filled my beer to make up for the spill. Olivia sat down at the bar to do her cash-out. I waited for her to talk to me. She kept counting her money.
I rolled up my sleeves so my tattoos were visible. I’d heard somewhere that girls like tattoos. I talked to Tim. I spoke louder and slower than usual. Tim asked me to repeat what I said a few times. Olivia moved to table nine.
Tim asked me to finish my beer. I drank it quickly. I got some on my shirt but I don’t think Tim or Olivia noticed. I went to the handicapped bathroom. I forgot to wash my hands when I was finished. My jacket had fallen off the stool. I picked it up and put it on. The lights were turned off and I had a smoke on the front steps. It was cold out. Tim locked up while Olivia got in his car and then it started to rain.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Delivering of Food
912 Finlayson Street
I pull up and park. Got steaming hot pizza here. It's a remodeled older house on a busy street. There are a couple of decent foreign imports in the driveway. I imagine a young couple with a child ordering out after some evening renovations. The lawn is elevated by nice stonework. The eccentrically large door opens after numerous locks are unhinged. I'm greeted by a giant painting of a hairy vagina. Two dykes appear. Both have short hair, glasses, and wear overstretched denim. They hated me before I arrived. They both say “about time.” I glance at the bill. It’s taken me twenty minutes to get here. I am, of course, in error when I correct their credit card receipt. They’ve tipped me a hundred dollars. My honesty is inevitably rewarded with a one-dollar tip. No one says thank you or good night. I kick over a flowerpot on the way back to my car.
23 Shady Willows Lane
If you're going to complain about your food being cold when it arrives don't order souvlaki from thirty kilometres away. It’s simple mathematics, right? It takes me an hour to find this place. It's in farm country, down a private road, down an even more private driveway. There are three houses with no address. The last one I knock on is the right one. I'm berated with a story about another restaurant that is inexplicably closed on a Monday night, their usual Greek place. And then I'm berated about the food “feeling” cold through the brown paper bag. I honestly don't care. I listen, smile, take the cash and as I leave I run over a garden gnome, it’s crushed torso with its etched grin left gazing at the evening sky.
I’ve just graduated from University with a degree in Anthropology and got a job as a Dishwasher/ Delivery driver at a Greek restaurant. My girlfriend works there, too. In September she will defend her masters thesis. Then we will go to Greece and get married at the restaurant owner’s villa. Beyond that, plans are vague.
Most evenings after work we drink our tips away with the restaurant manager at the pub next door. He tells fantastic stories, like sleeping with a Conservative MP in Ontario and doing cocaine with her off marble tables. He drinks gin and sodas quickly out of short glasses. His stories have you leaning forward on the table with your elbows, your hands supporting your face. I believe every word he says.
#1-1434 Mt. Pleasant Ave.
This place is just around the corner from the restaurant, a basement suite. I walk up and knock. There is some commotion and it takes a second before the door opens. I assume I was too quick. A short man opens. He stands there like a wounded sparrow. Through the crack of the door I see another man putting on his socks. They will be sharing one small pizza, cheese only. The man asks me if I've seen Dangerous Liaisons before. I say I have. He invites me into to watch it. I tell him I'm working but thanks for the offer. He tips me forty-five percent. I remember this house for the cash bonus.
9765 Birch Park Terrace
You've got to be kidding me. Who orders ten pizzas to Broadmead? It's half an hour away with no traffic but there is a lot of it and it takes forever to get there. On the way I pass the asylum where my parents met as psychiatrists. I remember a story they told me about a lunatic who stole the asylum truck. He drove the truck into a tree at the bottom of the driveway. I wonder what tree it might have been. A child opens the door and hands me a stack of small bills and coins. I count the money and she is three dollars short. I try to convey this to the child but she is only interested in the tower of pizzas I'm holding. The child takes the pizzas and closes the door. It's a cheap ploy by the parents and surprising, as it's a well-off suburb. I could ring the bell and settle this but instead I urinate the words “Fuck Ass” to the best of my ability on the manicured front lawn. It's late summer, shortly after dusk.
Most people in the restaurant’s kitchen don’t speak English very well in normal conversation. But it’s perfectly legible when it revolves around kitchen lingo: “table two order up”, “three order calamari, one Caesar salad”, “pour me a ginger ale, lady”. The front-end girls are all smoking hot, young, and for the most part, ridiculously flirty.
I often sit with Danny, the head cook, on breaks or during slow periods and have a pint of German beer. He had started, like me, as a dishwasher and delivery driver, but seventeen years ago. He worked his way up the ranks: driver, prep cook, pizza cook, head cook. To some degree, this frightens me. He’s told me of his life back in China as an Engineer and Architect. He had built and designed some of the most impressive buildings in Shanghai. I asked him why he left. He said for a better life. He works a second job on his day off. This frightens me, too.
678 Summit Place
Wow, this is a splendid place. Perched on the side of a hill in a part of downtown that I didn't know existed. There is some heavy construction going on. It would be interesting to come by one day and see what the finished product looks like. I find Gary, the guy who ordered the pizza. He's hammered. He wants to shake my hand. He tells me I don't shake my hand like a man. His hand feels limp, and lifeless. I wonder, according to Gary's standard for manly shakes, what one has to do to shake like a man? He refuses to let go. He might be using my hand for balance, or for some delusional reason, thinks he can score with the pizza delivery boy. He holds the box of pizza like a purse. The toppings surely stick to the top of the box. A man who looks like he could be a Dry-Waller walks by and says “goody, pizza!” and claps his hands as if in prayer. His claps create a cloud of grey dust and he walks right through it. Gary gives me a twenty-dollar tip. I'm positive his slurred eyes are trying to make out my ass as I walk away. I start to lurch like a cripple as an evasive maneuver. The next time Gary orders pizza I let Josef, the tall black guy, deliver it.
1246 Bay Street
I knew this one was trouble as soon as I found it. Right on the corner of two busy streets. A battered rancher with broken lawn chairs and empty beer cans in a yard protected by a molding fence. A couple of university kids answer. I give them the pizza. They look nervous but seem relieved I'm the same age. They say “Listen Dude, we don't have any money, we'll get you next time”, like for some reason that would be okay with me, like it was my pizza shop, like it wouldn't come out of my pocket. That sort of reasoning won't get you a university degree. There is not much I can do but slash the back tires of what is likely someone's parent’s vehicle.
582 Forest Rover Place
Houses in the rich neighborhoods can go one of two ways: really good tip or no tip. At this one I get no tip but an offer to come inside and watch the returns of the 2004 United States election. As someone interested in politics and only having a few weeks left on the job before I leave, I accept. I sit on the couch and eat humous and pita with a retired couple. They like my knowledge of the election and tell me they are glad the youth today are aware of these things. I like that they are supporting the Democrats, especially since they are in a rich neighborhood and didn't tip me. I still can't help myself on the way out and stomp out a spectacular looking floral display.
Sarah and I spend most days sleeping in and watching television because we were out all night guzzling the money that should probably feed us and pay our rent. We watch Days of our Lives with real passion. Sometimes we record it if we actually have to leave the house and do things like laundry. We’re really into Magnum P.I., too. It’s on every afternoon at two on channel six. Usually, at three, we watch a show that documents horrific murders in American towns no one wishes to hear of. Then we go to work and before our shifts begin we both have a cigarette out back with a small glass of wine in a teacup.
We think we are pretty smart by keeping the same schedules. If one of us gets off early, the other sits around and has a drink or five with Ned, the manager, or the other staff. At all times we are extremely negative about how ordinary people live their lives and rant and rave about how this depresses us and swear that we will never be like that.
No. 12-8763 Bolton Apartments, Bridge St.
I go to an apartment in the seedy part of town. It's one of those apartments that have a walkway to the front door, like a motel. These are always bad news. The curtains are drawn. A faded Canadian flag lists from a side window. A Folgers coffee tin bulges with rain-soaked cigarette butts near the door. A fat woman answers. Right away she starts into me about how she ordered Pepsi. I tell her we only have Coke. She says Sid knows this and always brings her a Pepsi. I tell her I'm not Sid. This doesn't change anything. I offer to go get a Pepsi. She's okay with this. I go to a corner store and ask the owner if I can trade a Coke for a Pepsi. After some negotiations, he agrees. For some reason, I have to pay the deposit. On the way back I park on the side street next to the parking lot of the building. I lick every piece of pizza in the box and sprinkle my belly button lint over top. It looks like oregano. I then light a smoke and ash in the side of tomato sauce. This provides the allusion of freshly ground pepper. To top it off, I rub the can of Pepsi in to my right armpit for thirty seconds. I give the fat lady the Pepsi, pizza, and side sauce. She acts like nothing has happened between us. She gives me a dollar tip and then a fiver to give to Sid. I say thanks, leave, put the cash in my pocket, and tell Sid about the Psycho when I get back. I keep the fiver.
A few months later Sarah and I get married; a couple of years after that we get divorced. Throughout, we tell ourselves that our lives will change and that that we’ll get real jobs, host dinner parties, buy expensive cheese, be ordinary people. I’m convinced that we will pay off our student loans and credit card debts and that we’ll take another fabulous trip, this time to Russia, or Hungary. Instead, we pay off nothing and take trips camping to nearby lakes, visit her family in Vancouver, or house-sit for my parents when they take airplanes to interesting places.
###
These days I become nervous when I see garden Gnomes. I avoid Nurseries and stare straight ahead when I drive by them in people’s front yards. It doesn’t matter if the gnomes are alone or are in family clusters. They stare accusingly at me like some sort of karma police, reminding me what I did, of who I was.
I pull up and park. Got steaming hot pizza here. It's a remodeled older house on a busy street. There are a couple of decent foreign imports in the driveway. I imagine a young couple with a child ordering out after some evening renovations. The lawn is elevated by nice stonework. The eccentrically large door opens after numerous locks are unhinged. I'm greeted by a giant painting of a hairy vagina. Two dykes appear. Both have short hair, glasses, and wear overstretched denim. They hated me before I arrived. They both say “about time.” I glance at the bill. It’s taken me twenty minutes to get here. I am, of course, in error when I correct their credit card receipt. They’ve tipped me a hundred dollars. My honesty is inevitably rewarded with a one-dollar tip. No one says thank you or good night. I kick over a flowerpot on the way back to my car.
23 Shady Willows Lane
If you're going to complain about your food being cold when it arrives don't order souvlaki from thirty kilometres away. It’s simple mathematics, right? It takes me an hour to find this place. It's in farm country, down a private road, down an even more private driveway. There are three houses with no address. The last one I knock on is the right one. I'm berated with a story about another restaurant that is inexplicably closed on a Monday night, their usual Greek place. And then I'm berated about the food “feeling” cold through the brown paper bag. I honestly don't care. I listen, smile, take the cash and as I leave I run over a garden gnome, it’s crushed torso with its etched grin left gazing at the evening sky.
I’ve just graduated from University with a degree in Anthropology and got a job as a Dishwasher/ Delivery driver at a Greek restaurant. My girlfriend works there, too. In September she will defend her masters thesis. Then we will go to Greece and get married at the restaurant owner’s villa. Beyond that, plans are vague.
Most evenings after work we drink our tips away with the restaurant manager at the pub next door. He tells fantastic stories, like sleeping with a Conservative MP in Ontario and doing cocaine with her off marble tables. He drinks gin and sodas quickly out of short glasses. His stories have you leaning forward on the table with your elbows, your hands supporting your face. I believe every word he says.
#1-1434 Mt. Pleasant Ave.
This place is just around the corner from the restaurant, a basement suite. I walk up and knock. There is some commotion and it takes a second before the door opens. I assume I was too quick. A short man opens. He stands there like a wounded sparrow. Through the crack of the door I see another man putting on his socks. They will be sharing one small pizza, cheese only. The man asks me if I've seen Dangerous Liaisons before. I say I have. He invites me into to watch it. I tell him I'm working but thanks for the offer. He tips me forty-five percent. I remember this house for the cash bonus.
9765 Birch Park Terrace
You've got to be kidding me. Who orders ten pizzas to Broadmead? It's half an hour away with no traffic but there is a lot of it and it takes forever to get there. On the way I pass the asylum where my parents met as psychiatrists. I remember a story they told me about a lunatic who stole the asylum truck. He drove the truck into a tree at the bottom of the driveway. I wonder what tree it might have been. A child opens the door and hands me a stack of small bills and coins. I count the money and she is three dollars short. I try to convey this to the child but she is only interested in the tower of pizzas I'm holding. The child takes the pizzas and closes the door. It's a cheap ploy by the parents and surprising, as it's a well-off suburb. I could ring the bell and settle this but instead I urinate the words “Fuck Ass” to the best of my ability on the manicured front lawn. It's late summer, shortly after dusk.
Most people in the restaurant’s kitchen don’t speak English very well in normal conversation. But it’s perfectly legible when it revolves around kitchen lingo: “table two order up”, “three order calamari, one Caesar salad”, “pour me a ginger ale, lady”. The front-end girls are all smoking hot, young, and for the most part, ridiculously flirty.
I often sit with Danny, the head cook, on breaks or during slow periods and have a pint of German beer. He had started, like me, as a dishwasher and delivery driver, but seventeen years ago. He worked his way up the ranks: driver, prep cook, pizza cook, head cook. To some degree, this frightens me. He’s told me of his life back in China as an Engineer and Architect. He had built and designed some of the most impressive buildings in Shanghai. I asked him why he left. He said for a better life. He works a second job on his day off. This frightens me, too.
678 Summit Place
Wow, this is a splendid place. Perched on the side of a hill in a part of downtown that I didn't know existed. There is some heavy construction going on. It would be interesting to come by one day and see what the finished product looks like. I find Gary, the guy who ordered the pizza. He's hammered. He wants to shake my hand. He tells me I don't shake my hand like a man. His hand feels limp, and lifeless. I wonder, according to Gary's standard for manly shakes, what one has to do to shake like a man? He refuses to let go. He might be using my hand for balance, or for some delusional reason, thinks he can score with the pizza delivery boy. He holds the box of pizza like a purse. The toppings surely stick to the top of the box. A man who looks like he could be a Dry-Waller walks by and says “goody, pizza!” and claps his hands as if in prayer. His claps create a cloud of grey dust and he walks right through it. Gary gives me a twenty-dollar tip. I'm positive his slurred eyes are trying to make out my ass as I walk away. I start to lurch like a cripple as an evasive maneuver. The next time Gary orders pizza I let Josef, the tall black guy, deliver it.
1246 Bay Street
I knew this one was trouble as soon as I found it. Right on the corner of two busy streets. A battered rancher with broken lawn chairs and empty beer cans in a yard protected by a molding fence. A couple of university kids answer. I give them the pizza. They look nervous but seem relieved I'm the same age. They say “Listen Dude, we don't have any money, we'll get you next time”, like for some reason that would be okay with me, like it was my pizza shop, like it wouldn't come out of my pocket. That sort of reasoning won't get you a university degree. There is not much I can do but slash the back tires of what is likely someone's parent’s vehicle.
582 Forest Rover Place
Houses in the rich neighborhoods can go one of two ways: really good tip or no tip. At this one I get no tip but an offer to come inside and watch the returns of the 2004 United States election. As someone interested in politics and only having a few weeks left on the job before I leave, I accept. I sit on the couch and eat humous and pita with a retired couple. They like my knowledge of the election and tell me they are glad the youth today are aware of these things. I like that they are supporting the Democrats, especially since they are in a rich neighborhood and didn't tip me. I still can't help myself on the way out and stomp out a spectacular looking floral display.
Sarah and I spend most days sleeping in and watching television because we were out all night guzzling the money that should probably feed us and pay our rent. We watch Days of our Lives with real passion. Sometimes we record it if we actually have to leave the house and do things like laundry. We’re really into Magnum P.I., too. It’s on every afternoon at two on channel six. Usually, at three, we watch a show that documents horrific murders in American towns no one wishes to hear of. Then we go to work and before our shifts begin we both have a cigarette out back with a small glass of wine in a teacup.
We think we are pretty smart by keeping the same schedules. If one of us gets off early, the other sits around and has a drink or five with Ned, the manager, or the other staff. At all times we are extremely negative about how ordinary people live their lives and rant and rave about how this depresses us and swear that we will never be like that.
No. 12-8763 Bolton Apartments, Bridge St.
I go to an apartment in the seedy part of town. It's one of those apartments that have a walkway to the front door, like a motel. These are always bad news. The curtains are drawn. A faded Canadian flag lists from a side window. A Folgers coffee tin bulges with rain-soaked cigarette butts near the door. A fat woman answers. Right away she starts into me about how she ordered Pepsi. I tell her we only have Coke. She says Sid knows this and always brings her a Pepsi. I tell her I'm not Sid. This doesn't change anything. I offer to go get a Pepsi. She's okay with this. I go to a corner store and ask the owner if I can trade a Coke for a Pepsi. After some negotiations, he agrees. For some reason, I have to pay the deposit. On the way back I park on the side street next to the parking lot of the building. I lick every piece of pizza in the box and sprinkle my belly button lint over top. It looks like oregano. I then light a smoke and ash in the side of tomato sauce. This provides the allusion of freshly ground pepper. To top it off, I rub the can of Pepsi in to my right armpit for thirty seconds. I give the fat lady the Pepsi, pizza, and side sauce. She acts like nothing has happened between us. She gives me a dollar tip and then a fiver to give to Sid. I say thanks, leave, put the cash in my pocket, and tell Sid about the Psycho when I get back. I keep the fiver.
A few months later Sarah and I get married; a couple of years after that we get divorced. Throughout, we tell ourselves that our lives will change and that that we’ll get real jobs, host dinner parties, buy expensive cheese, be ordinary people. I’m convinced that we will pay off our student loans and credit card debts and that we’ll take another fabulous trip, this time to Russia, or Hungary. Instead, we pay off nothing and take trips camping to nearby lakes, visit her family in Vancouver, or house-sit for my parents when they take airplanes to interesting places.
###
These days I become nervous when I see garden Gnomes. I avoid Nurseries and stare straight ahead when I drive by them in people’s front yards. It doesn’t matter if the gnomes are alone or are in family clusters. They stare accusingly at me like some sort of karma police, reminding me what I did, of who I was.
There are ten books in front of me and they are:
1. Christmas Books: Charles Dickens (1898 printing)
2. Black Mass: John Gray
3. Cosmopolis: Don DeLillo
4. the stories of John Cheever
5. The Complete Stories: Flannery O'Connor
6. A Farewell to Arms: Ernest Hemingway
7. Was She Pretty?: Leanne Shapton
8. The Kingdom by the Sea: Paul Theroux
9. Buying Cigarettes for the Dog: Stuart Ross
10.The Pesthouse: Jim Crace
Ps. I'm currently bored.
2. Black Mass: John Gray
3. Cosmopolis: Don DeLillo
4. the stories of John Cheever
5. The Complete Stories: Flannery O'Connor
6. A Farewell to Arms: Ernest Hemingway
7. Was She Pretty?: Leanne Shapton
8. The Kingdom by the Sea: Paul Theroux
9. Buying Cigarettes for the Dog: Stuart Ross
10.The Pesthouse: Jim Crace
Ps. I'm currently bored.
On the Bus with Jesus: number 5, St. Laurent
On the Bus with Jesus: number 5, St. Laurent
by William Farrant
Corner of Sommerset and Elgin waiting for the bus. A girl stands against the brick wall, one foot up against it, headphones in, chewing gum loudly so her teeth clang together. She looks angry. I'm dressed well, holding a bottle of wine tucked under my arm. The bus comes. The number 5, St. Laurent. I get on and sit towards the back, the first seat to the right, above the step.
The bus moves slowly.
A man with crutches, one headphone dangling from his left hear, covered in an overly large winter jacket, looks nervous. A man yells from the back, "You wanna get off at the next one, Steve, not the one after or you'll have to double back. Get off at the next one." Steve is the man with crutches. He says thanks and hobbles to the door while the bus is still moving. His crutches grind against a railing. He nearly falls. Steve says, "God Bless you, Hank."
Hank is a preacher and he looks ghetto, one of those inner city preacher types. He wears black, but it's not matching, faded in spots, and quickly put together. He also chews gum loudly, and his leg is up on the window sill. He looks reformed. Like he may have killed or could snap at any moment and do crack.
As Steve gets off he says, "Thanks Hank, I needed that tonight."
Hank says, "Don't sleep in the shelter tonight."
Hank gets off two stops later at Rideau Centre. He struts like Rambo. And he's short, stocky, white haired, about fifty, but looks sixty.
A woman gets on dressed in several shades of pink: the sport coat is tope, the blouse is mauve, the skirt is fluorescent pink. She wears several pins and broaches around the breast area. Her curly white and grey hair is knotted up in two bunches on top. She is caked in foundation and breathes heavily as she sits down.
The bus moves again.
The lady in pink fumbles with a broach. Her movements are quick, busy, and not really effective. As the bus stops for a traffic light she gets up and slides over to another seat, slumps down. She carries a watermelon pink bag, its sides scuffed, the brand it advertises indiscernible.
A passenger points out that she dropped a broach. The lady in pink says, "Oh, geez, I only just got that there broach and I'm about to lose it! Thank you and praise the lord! It was only yesterday I got this broach. I was down at Drummond Centre. You know Drummond Centre? Lovely Broach. I should tie a string to it so I don't lose it again."
She pretends to tie a string to the broach. Seconds later she gets up and walks towards the back of the bus. She stops, holds a pole, and says, "Oh, a little stair. Might want to be careful there. Don't want to fall up the little stair!"
A girl who looks like she does hard drugs and wearing a hoodie made for a large man quips, "Be careful of the stair, you don't want to lose a shoe."
I smile at the girl and we share a silent laugh. The lady in pink keeps talking to herself and then takes a step up the stair, and as the bus lurches, she falls and a shoe comes off. She says, "I've lost my shoe, I've lost my shoe, what can I do, what can I do!"
She bends down and tries to put on the shoe as the bus turns. I see her pink sock, but it is not really pink, it's kind of dirty, almost beige from wear. I suddenly think of her undergarments. Are they pink too?
Revolted, I position myself so no one can sit beside me, namely, her. She walks past and sits down on the side at the back. A woman points out that she has dropped her broach. She picks it up and says, "I just got this broach the other day from Drummond Centre. It's a real nice broach! Like the ones rich people wear. I can't lose it. What would Jesus think! Rich people always wear things once and then never again. I'm not rich people. It's a real nice broach, eh? I should tie a string to it so I don't lose it!"
She directs her conversation towards a native family who is talking about Uncle Morris' upcoming visit. They don't listen. The girl who looks like she does hard drugs and wears the large hoodie answers her boyfriends cell phone in French. The boyfriend stares straight ahead. His shaved head is covered in blisters and sores and he holds his right arm out straight on the back of the seat in front of him, like a zombie, mouth open. The lady in pink says, "I just love this broach. It just doesn't want to stay on. I got it at Drummond…."
by William Farrant
Corner of Sommerset and Elgin waiting for the bus. A girl stands against the brick wall, one foot up against it, headphones in, chewing gum loudly so her teeth clang together. She looks angry. I'm dressed well, holding a bottle of wine tucked under my arm. The bus comes. The number 5, St. Laurent. I get on and sit towards the back, the first seat to the right, above the step.
The bus moves slowly.
A man with crutches, one headphone dangling from his left hear, covered in an overly large winter jacket, looks nervous. A man yells from the back, "You wanna get off at the next one, Steve, not the one after or you'll have to double back. Get off at the next one." Steve is the man with crutches. He says thanks and hobbles to the door while the bus is still moving. His crutches grind against a railing. He nearly falls. Steve says, "God Bless you, Hank."
Hank is a preacher and he looks ghetto, one of those inner city preacher types. He wears black, but it's not matching, faded in spots, and quickly put together. He also chews gum loudly, and his leg is up on the window sill. He looks reformed. Like he may have killed or could snap at any moment and do crack.
As Steve gets off he says, "Thanks Hank, I needed that tonight."
Hank says, "Don't sleep in the shelter tonight."
Hank gets off two stops later at Rideau Centre. He struts like Rambo. And he's short, stocky, white haired, about fifty, but looks sixty.
A woman gets on dressed in several shades of pink: the sport coat is tope, the blouse is mauve, the skirt is fluorescent pink. She wears several pins and broaches around the breast area. Her curly white and grey hair is knotted up in two bunches on top. She is caked in foundation and breathes heavily as she sits down.
The bus moves again.
The lady in pink fumbles with a broach. Her movements are quick, busy, and not really effective. As the bus stops for a traffic light she gets up and slides over to another seat, slumps down. She carries a watermelon pink bag, its sides scuffed, the brand it advertises indiscernible.
A passenger points out that she dropped a broach. The lady in pink says, "Oh, geez, I only just got that there broach and I'm about to lose it! Thank you and praise the lord! It was only yesterday I got this broach. I was down at Drummond Centre. You know Drummond Centre? Lovely Broach. I should tie a string to it so I don't lose it again."
She pretends to tie a string to the broach. Seconds later she gets up and walks towards the back of the bus. She stops, holds a pole, and says, "Oh, a little stair. Might want to be careful there. Don't want to fall up the little stair!"
A girl who looks like she does hard drugs and wearing a hoodie made for a large man quips, "Be careful of the stair, you don't want to lose a shoe."
I smile at the girl and we share a silent laugh. The lady in pink keeps talking to herself and then takes a step up the stair, and as the bus lurches, she falls and a shoe comes off. She says, "I've lost my shoe, I've lost my shoe, what can I do, what can I do!"
She bends down and tries to put on the shoe as the bus turns. I see her pink sock, but it is not really pink, it's kind of dirty, almost beige from wear. I suddenly think of her undergarments. Are they pink too?
Revolted, I position myself so no one can sit beside me, namely, her. She walks past and sits down on the side at the back. A woman points out that she has dropped her broach. She picks it up and says, "I just got this broach the other day from Drummond Centre. It's a real nice broach! Like the ones rich people wear. I can't lose it. What would Jesus think! Rich people always wear things once and then never again. I'm not rich people. It's a real nice broach, eh? I should tie a string to it so I don't lose it!"
She directs her conversation towards a native family who is talking about Uncle Morris' upcoming visit. They don't listen. The girl who looks like she does hard drugs and wears the large hoodie answers her boyfriends cell phone in French. The boyfriend stares straight ahead. His shaved head is covered in blisters and sores and he holds his right arm out straight on the back of the seat in front of him, like a zombie, mouth open. The lady in pink says, "I just love this broach. It just doesn't want to stay on. I got it at Drummond…."
Cooking with Context: easy recipies for single guys who are cooking in strange kitchens
Scene: My sister’s place in Vancouver, accompanied by two cats and a runt dog. Though, realistically, it could be fucking anywhere.
To start, you need an idea. This I have: salmon, with roast potatoes and salad- it is so shit-ass simple.
Ingredients
1 fresh Salmon Fillet- a bitching piece of Sockeye will do.
1 Potato- Yukon Gold are great. They’re tasty little fuckers.
1 Head of Lettuce- Red Leaf is my favourite. Some sexy looking greenery there!
1 Tomato- Get the Hothouse! They’re so soft and lush you’ll just wanna smash em up.
1 bunch of Green Onions- subtle in taste, but can take a salad to the next fucking level.
1 Lemon- sour little shits they are but they’re the real driving force of this meal.
1 Avocado- do the squish test: not too squishy, not too firm. You’ll know the right one when you come to it. Pretend it’s a boob or something.
Salt and Pepper
Dried Dill
Olive Oil
Tinfoil
Next, you need to figure out what you have available to you, namely, what you are allowed to use. I ask my sister while she is brushing her teeth:
“Do you have lemons?”
“Wemons?, aah, ahuh, on four in wag.”
“On floor in bag?”
“Yuh-huh.”
“Do you have Salt and Pepper and Olive Oil and Dried Dill?”
“Yuh, sink tho”
“Can I use this shit?”
“Yes you can” –she’d finished brushing her teeth by this point, and shortly after she left for work.
The rest I figure out myself. I route through the cupboards and find the shit I need, like a pot, a baking dish, a bowl and a razor sharp knife.
After I’ve poked around and stirred shit up, I make a list of the other crap I need from the store: salmon, potato, lettuce, green onion, tomato, avocado and tinfoil.
***
[I go to Choices, an organic grocery store a good eight minutes hike up the urine-drenched street. Choices smells like petulia and the stiff plastic of new credit cards. There are hippie looking dudes with tattered clothes, and urban guys with special cloth grocery bags that say shit like, “We only have one Earth!” and “Be Green stay Clean!” These urban lifestyle models also smell like expensive cologne and push children in large, maniacal buggies that block most of the aisles.]
***
Directions
Find the oven and crank that fucker up to 350. You’re gonna want to let it preheat for ten minutes.
Fill that fat-ass pot up with some water and flip on one of those stovetop element things to max fucking power.
Cut the potatoes into quarters, or eighths, depends how big those little bastards are. It’s a Game Time decision. Put the strainer in the pot. When the water gets all bubbly and crazy and shit, put the potatoes in. And then put the lid on. Steam the little bastards for five minutes and then remove. Make sure to turn the element off when you’re done.
Flop that sexy bitch of a fillet onto some of that smooth, shiny tinfoil. Apply salt to the fillet. Be careful here. You don’t wanna put too much salt on. It’ll make the fucker taste like shit. Then grind some pepper over it. Next, sprinkle some Dill over top –Dill-icious! Cut up that fucking lemon into slices and lay about four or five of those little sour peckers over the fillet. Fold the tinfoil around your fish. Make firm creases. It keeps the heat in.
Drag out that baking dish. Put those smoking hot little bastards you call potatoes in the dish and smother with salt and pepper. You can really spread that shit on thick here because they’re potatoes and they need help. Grab that Olive Oil and just drizzle the fucking shit out of them. Roll them around with a spoon. Get full fucking coverage.
Put the tinfoil package and the baking dish in the oven for 35 minutes.
Make the salad. Chop the vegetable shit up and combine it in the bowl. You’re pretty much done at this point -tear the fridge apart at mealtime and find some salad dressing. In my case, I found a fucking lovely Raspberry Vinaigrette.
Bonus Step for good measure: do the dishes. You got thirty-five minutes to kill. Do the hosts a favour and just do’em. Man-up!
After thirty-five minutes take the shit out of the oven. Make sure to use a cloth or dish-towel when you do or else you’ll burn the living fuck out of your hands and most likely drop your hard earn prizes.
Place the cooked shit next to the vegetable shit on a plate. It should look like something you might get in a restaurant or something your mom made for your birthday when you were a little fuck.
Sit down and the eat fuck out of it.
To start, you need an idea. This I have: salmon, with roast potatoes and salad- it is so shit-ass simple.
Ingredients
1 fresh Salmon Fillet- a bitching piece of Sockeye will do.
1 Potato- Yukon Gold are great. They’re tasty little fuckers.
1 Head of Lettuce- Red Leaf is my favourite. Some sexy looking greenery there!
1 Tomato- Get the Hothouse! They’re so soft and lush you’ll just wanna smash em up.
1 bunch of Green Onions- subtle in taste, but can take a salad to the next fucking level.
1 Lemon- sour little shits they are but they’re the real driving force of this meal.
1 Avocado- do the squish test: not too squishy, not too firm. You’ll know the right one when you come to it. Pretend it’s a boob or something.
Salt and Pepper
Dried Dill
Olive Oil
Tinfoil
Next, you need to figure out what you have available to you, namely, what you are allowed to use. I ask my sister while she is brushing her teeth:
“Do you have lemons?”
“Wemons?, aah, ahuh, on four in wag.”
“On floor in bag?”
“Yuh-huh.”
“Do you have Salt and Pepper and Olive Oil and Dried Dill?”
“Yuh, sink tho”
“Can I use this shit?”
“Yes you can” –she’d finished brushing her teeth by this point, and shortly after she left for work.
The rest I figure out myself. I route through the cupboards and find the shit I need, like a pot, a baking dish, a bowl and a razor sharp knife.
After I’ve poked around and stirred shit up, I make a list of the other crap I need from the store: salmon, potato, lettuce, green onion, tomato, avocado and tinfoil.
***
[I go to Choices, an organic grocery store a good eight minutes hike up the urine-drenched street. Choices smells like petulia and the stiff plastic of new credit cards. There are hippie looking dudes with tattered clothes, and urban guys with special cloth grocery bags that say shit like, “We only have one Earth!” and “Be Green stay Clean!” These urban lifestyle models also smell like expensive cologne and push children in large, maniacal buggies that block most of the aisles.]
***
Directions
Find the oven and crank that fucker up to 350. You’re gonna want to let it preheat for ten minutes.
Fill that fat-ass pot up with some water and flip on one of those stovetop element things to max fucking power.
Cut the potatoes into quarters, or eighths, depends how big those little bastards are. It’s a Game Time decision. Put the strainer in the pot. When the water gets all bubbly and crazy and shit, put the potatoes in. And then put the lid on. Steam the little bastards for five minutes and then remove. Make sure to turn the element off when you’re done.
Flop that sexy bitch of a fillet onto some of that smooth, shiny tinfoil. Apply salt to the fillet. Be careful here. You don’t wanna put too much salt on. It’ll make the fucker taste like shit. Then grind some pepper over it. Next, sprinkle some Dill over top –Dill-icious! Cut up that fucking lemon into slices and lay about four or five of those little sour peckers over the fillet. Fold the tinfoil around your fish. Make firm creases. It keeps the heat in.
Drag out that baking dish. Put those smoking hot little bastards you call potatoes in the dish and smother with salt and pepper. You can really spread that shit on thick here because they’re potatoes and they need help. Grab that Olive Oil and just drizzle the fucking shit out of them. Roll them around with a spoon. Get full fucking coverage.
Put the tinfoil package and the baking dish in the oven for 35 minutes.
Make the salad. Chop the vegetable shit up and combine it in the bowl. You’re pretty much done at this point -tear the fridge apart at mealtime and find some salad dressing. In my case, I found a fucking lovely Raspberry Vinaigrette.
Bonus Step for good measure: do the dishes. You got thirty-five minutes to kill. Do the hosts a favour and just do’em. Man-up!
After thirty-five minutes take the shit out of the oven. Make sure to use a cloth or dish-towel when you do or else you’ll burn the living fuck out of your hands and most likely drop your hard earn prizes.
Place the cooked shit next to the vegetable shit on a plate. It should look like something you might get in a restaurant or something your mom made for your birthday when you were a little fuck.
Sit down and the eat fuck out of it.
Greetings! Wish you were here!
Dear Carla,
I don't want the cappuccino maker anymore. I've been telling you for years. We never use it and if we do the nozzle that is supposed to foam the milk foams the entire kitchen and little smatterings of milk-foam stick to places you don't discover for two months and it takes a knife or a fork to clean it up. We're getting rid of that thing. I'm really fucking serious. And that's right, I sent this on a postcard. You like the picture of the Empress Hotel on the front? It's great. A nice aerial shot on a perfect Victorian summer day. Too bad we've never been there for tea.
The thing just sits there taking up valuable vegetable chopping and meal preparation space. Remember that time I put it in the cupboard with the rest of the barely used electrical devices: waffle machine, panini machine, the actual coffee machine? Was it out of spite that you put it back on the counter in the way of the spice rack? Am I that terrible of a person?
I hope you read this when it's raining and you're depressed and on your period and listening to sad music, the kind of music that makes you want to cry, producing a little quivering tear on your cheek, the kind of tear that makes you think “poor me” and then “oh, poor you” when you think it back to yourself in some witty, poetic dialogue that someone might actually care about.
By the way, I'm in Mexico with your sister.
XOXO,
Brent
I don't want the cappuccino maker anymore. I've been telling you for years. We never use it and if we do the nozzle that is supposed to foam the milk foams the entire kitchen and little smatterings of milk-foam stick to places you don't discover for two months and it takes a knife or a fork to clean it up. We're getting rid of that thing. I'm really fucking serious. And that's right, I sent this on a postcard. You like the picture of the Empress Hotel on the front? It's great. A nice aerial shot on a perfect Victorian summer day. Too bad we've never been there for tea.
The thing just sits there taking up valuable vegetable chopping and meal preparation space. Remember that time I put it in the cupboard with the rest of the barely used electrical devices: waffle machine, panini machine, the actual coffee machine? Was it out of spite that you put it back on the counter in the way of the spice rack? Am I that terrible of a person?
I hope you read this when it's raining and you're depressed and on your period and listening to sad music, the kind of music that makes you want to cry, producing a little quivering tear on your cheek, the kind of tear that makes you think “poor me” and then “oh, poor you” when you think it back to yourself in some witty, poetic dialogue that someone might actually care about.
By the way, I'm in Mexico with your sister.
XOXO,
Brent
Love at First Sight!
And I knew it was love at first sight even though I could only see the back of your head because you were sitting with your mother in the seat ahead of me on the bus, your hair in the style of Stevie Nicks at her best -circa Rumours- lying straddled over the back of your seat. And I couldn't help myself by subtlety leaning forward and grabbing a delicate whiff of it: butter pecan- such lovely scents they make these days. And then, compelled by our sudden mutual attraction, I stroked the back of my hand across a section of your hair dangling over the seat and nearing my knee, and then, even more compelled, I threaded your hair through my left hand and gazed forlornly at it like a puppy, or a movie star in a scene flooded by waves of Spanish guitar.
And it was then that your mother accosted me, calling me a pervert or something, and I was stunned at the interruption of our impromptu romance and the interruption to the delicious candor of your voice as you reasoned to your mother of Lisa's intentions of leaving Kevin, your brother. And I, being coy, said that I thought you were my sister and that I was purporting a practical joke and that this was all just a misunderstanding. And I thought -and I knew- you'd agree that this was a great tactical approach because sometimes mothers don't approve of their daughters suiters.
And what luck it was that we all got off at the same stop and that I just happened to follow you for three blocks and that you entered the Bridal Boutique- it was at this point I realized how wonderful a daughter you were to be supporting your mother on her second or third marriage by accompanying her at a dress fitting. And it was with uncertain surprise to me that you tried on a dress, but then I occurred that you knew, like I knew, that we were for real. And that your mother wasn't getting married for a second or third time, but it was you, committing to me, that quickly, after such brief courtship.
And as I stepped away from that pillar and out from behind the mannequin closer to you your mother made a motion to someone and pointed in my direction and then a large man dressed in security type clothing came over and escorted me out the large Romanesque-like front doors- me hurriedly gazing over my shoulder displaying heartache and tears, arms flailing, searching for happy endings. And as I reluctantly moped down the street, a little bothered at the turn of events, I wondered if you were feeling, like I was feeling, that our fates had been isolated- however temporary they must have been- by your overbearing, dictating mother.
And I couldn't help but think about what your mother had said about your being blind as I was shoveled out of the store by the burly guy, and I assumed she was trying to dissuade my advances, and as I started thinking about you for the rest of the day I went and got my hair cut and then bought reading glasses shortly after the follicle adjustment and went home and looked at the bus schedules on the Internet so I could be on the same bus next week when surely you would be there as well and our romance could script another chapter.
And it was then that your mother accosted me, calling me a pervert or something, and I was stunned at the interruption of our impromptu romance and the interruption to the delicious candor of your voice as you reasoned to your mother of Lisa's intentions of leaving Kevin, your brother. And I, being coy, said that I thought you were my sister and that I was purporting a practical joke and that this was all just a misunderstanding. And I thought -and I knew- you'd agree that this was a great tactical approach because sometimes mothers don't approve of their daughters suiters.
And what luck it was that we all got off at the same stop and that I just happened to follow you for three blocks and that you entered the Bridal Boutique- it was at this point I realized how wonderful a daughter you were to be supporting your mother on her second or third marriage by accompanying her at a dress fitting. And it was with uncertain surprise to me that you tried on a dress, but then I occurred that you knew, like I knew, that we were for real. And that your mother wasn't getting married for a second or third time, but it was you, committing to me, that quickly, after such brief courtship.
And as I stepped away from that pillar and out from behind the mannequin closer to you your mother made a motion to someone and pointed in my direction and then a large man dressed in security type clothing came over and escorted me out the large Romanesque-like front doors- me hurriedly gazing over my shoulder displaying heartache and tears, arms flailing, searching for happy endings. And as I reluctantly moped down the street, a little bothered at the turn of events, I wondered if you were feeling, like I was feeling, that our fates had been isolated- however temporary they must have been- by your overbearing, dictating mother.
And I couldn't help but think about what your mother had said about your being blind as I was shoveled out of the store by the burly guy, and I assumed she was trying to dissuade my advances, and as I started thinking about you for the rest of the day I went and got my hair cut and then bought reading glasses shortly after the follicle adjustment and went home and looked at the bus schedules on the Internet so I could be on the same bus next week when surely you would be there as well and our romance could script another chapter.
Ten observations of a new town after nearly one month being there, oh, and the town being Ottawa.
1. People do not say Thank You to bus drivers, though, that being said, this over-politeness drove me mad in Victoria. It's their job!!!! Do you say Thank You to your Process Server? Of note, I was a Process Server and the most pleasant salutation I ever received was, "Fuck Off, Asshole."
2. When you cross the Rue Eddy Bridge into Hull it is a completely different world- I went there to get an ID Badge for work and I thought I was suddenly in Serbia. I've never been to Serbia, but I've seen pictures of it in National Geographic and Hull looked like it. Maybe it had something to do with the rusted out damn and the vacant industrial buildings. Or I was just being judgmental.
3. Hearing language such as someone saying to their dog "Resposez-vous Fucking Chien" is pretty normal. The point being mixed English French sentences. I further this on point 4, somewhat.
4. You can suddenly walk into a four block radius and everyone speaks French, then cross a street, and it's back to English and then lather, rinse, repeat!
5. There is the O-Train. And it runs nowhere important- common local rant. It doesn't go to the Airport or downtown. Imagine a Train that ran from Richmond to New West. Poor example, probably.
6. Despite the name of the suburb called "Barhaven", it is anything but.
7. The head down-body tilted forward-long jacket-speed walk look is pervasive. Even if it is not cold yet, it's like pre-season training. I originally thought it was some self-indulgent strut to ward off outsiders. I'm obviously wrong and walking like this when it actually gets cold probably saves lives.
8. It may be "Movember", but there are some really bad mustaches on young men that appear permanent or certainly more than a few weeks old. No joke. Unless girls find this attractive, they have slim pickings.
9. Street signs appear to be an option to local infrastructure planning.
10. Shanghai Greek Restaurant is the best place on earth.
2. When you cross the Rue Eddy Bridge into Hull it is a completely different world- I went there to get an ID Badge for work and I thought I was suddenly in Serbia. I've never been to Serbia, but I've seen pictures of it in National Geographic and Hull looked like it. Maybe it had something to do with the rusted out damn and the vacant industrial buildings. Or I was just being judgmental.
3. Hearing language such as someone saying to their dog "Resposez-vous Fucking Chien" is pretty normal. The point being mixed English French sentences. I further this on point 4, somewhat.
4. You can suddenly walk into a four block radius and everyone speaks French, then cross a street, and it's back to English and then lather, rinse, repeat!
5. There is the O-Train. And it runs nowhere important- common local rant. It doesn't go to the Airport or downtown. Imagine a Train that ran from Richmond to New West. Poor example, probably.
6. Despite the name of the suburb called "Barhaven", it is anything but.
7. The head down-body tilted forward-long jacket-speed walk look is pervasive. Even if it is not cold yet, it's like pre-season training. I originally thought it was some self-indulgent strut to ward off outsiders. I'm obviously wrong and walking like this when it actually gets cold probably saves lives.
8. It may be "Movember", but there are some really bad mustaches on young men that appear permanent or certainly more than a few weeks old. No joke. Unless girls find this attractive, they have slim pickings.
9. Street signs appear to be an option to local infrastructure planning.
10. Shanghai Greek Restaurant is the best place on earth.
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