How she came to know the nation’s capital
The first hour was a disguised panic. I made some futile attempts on the payphone, only to find recorded voices. As the others slowly disappeared into the vehicles of family and friends. I assumed a weary and distressed presence. I furrowed my eyebrows, breathed unevenly, and made nervous attempts to straiten my hair. I should never have paid for this haircut I think, I can’t control it.
The security guard walks around purposefully. She read signs meticulously as if terrorists have left messages in code, and she checks lockers by banging the doors. She walks from one end of the station to another pretending not to notice me. This is very kind of her. I position myself in view of the front doors. This will be more dramatic I conclude. Perhaps the customer service man, who had initially dispensed my weary prescription, and would later give me the wrong bus time, twice, would offer me a pillow, or a safe position behind the counter (?). But it is the woman who gives me comfort.
“Are you waiting for a ride? There’s a red car out there waiting”
She wants to lock the doors.
“Actually,” waiting for the alternatives to make themselves clear. “No.”, I concede.
“It’s going to be a long night then.”
I nod apologetically for her, not me. “Yes”. The resignation.
Time becomes easier now. I pull out my knitting, black socks, I know I will never finish them because I hate having to make two of the same. I play my favourite Keith Jarrett album through my headphones. The 6th penguin guide to jazz on cd imposes a “* * * (*)” sentence on this album which is something I will never be able to accept.
Once, a bus arrives and its occupants file out so quickly as to annoy and depress me for a whole twenty-five minutes. I watch the clock very carefully, until Antoine arrives. He was just in a fight and “a buddy” punched him in his, now swelling, cheek. The friend was, “in the military,”. I nod, but not for the reason he thinks. “It was dumb.” he says, “about a girl”. Fair enough. He was drunk, and he admitted this to me, which I thought was nice of him. We talked about “partying” in Toronto, in Montreal, Hamilton, and everywhere either of us has ever visited, or lived, and I adopt a funny voice, because I don’t really know what “partying” means. Drinking beer and acting dumb, I think. I suppose I have “partied” before.
I munch on sunflower seeds, and he remains on a neighbouring bench, a safe distance, until six when the café opens. He buys me eggs, brown toast and coffee. He tells me I can pretend they are free range, and then laughs. I am glad he acknowledges my concern. He is a lot funnier looking up close, with wide-set deer eyes and a big head. He is a lot shorter than me, which is good because I don’t like to talk to tall strangers. He keeps ice on his face which is chubby, and swollen and it reminds me that he is a very young twenty-six. At 7:00 am, he joins the line-up for Toronto, and we shake hands. He gives me his card, which confirms his story, but I don’t offer a return contact.
* * * (*)
My 9 hole boots are the worst in the snow, especially over forty centimetres of it, they remind me to walk with conviction into asperity, five and one half hours. I want to go somewhere, because it is finally early light out, and I have just been told that the early bus does not run on sundays. The customer service man apologised for not remembering this information earlier. He mentioned going downtown, and I trusted him for no reason. I didn’t get directions, I just walked towards the big buildings.
* * * (*)
I round the corner of a heavily mirrored building and spot the presumptuous silhouettes in reflection. So soon? I forget about my slick boots, and I run clumsily and joyously through a white intersection towards the familiar backdrop. The heavily gabled rooftops are resplendent in their white trim and green copper, like winter pine bows. The glowing street lamps ripple about these towers in a forest of blackened trunks, supporting autumn puffballs, pregnant, and full of fireflies. They have been burning throughout the night, despite the downpour; the snow is falling heavy and thick. It is remembering that it is as powerful and life-giving as its liquid source. It sweeps around my lips and eyelashes like kisses, and drifts around me so fully, that I can make snow angels in the air. I see large men, frozen in dark polished stone, with white flakes tucked in their shoes and hands and elbows. Just like me. Are the yellow caterpillars moving the distance? Right now, their paths are absolutely silent. I am completely and gloriously here, and alone
* * * (*)
I was cold, and my socks were now soaked. I pee in a parking lot just before finding a Tim Horton’s. I try to order soup, but settle for hot chocolate; I know it is way too early. The sign say the loitering limit is a maximum of twenty minutes. I brush my teeth in the bathroom. I think about leaving my toothpaste foam in the sink as a political protest, but in the end I run the water and carefully use a paper towel to wipe it clean. I’m no rogue I think. But I end up peeing in the street, again, before I spot another asylum.
The mall is empty but well lit, clean and warm. The escalators move with optimism, so I go up, then down. Then again, because no one is watching. The bench is specially designed for people like me. A convex metal grate, made to deter anything but sitting for less than twenty minutes with very good posture. I push it to the corner, and lie with my arms and legs crossed, feet off the edge, so as not to be indecent or rude. I think about what I will say to security should they question me. “What if I was your daughter?”, perhaps “I’m in university”, or “I’m waiting for the stores to open”. I decide to reject the last option, because I am sitting across the LCBO.
* * * (*)
Old people smile at me as I walk in. They are pleased that such a young person has decided to brave the weather, utterly alone no less, to attend. The church is warm. I chuckle to myself at how cleverly I have fooled them. I am a spy in their midst, full of anti-catholic sentiment, and a student of evolutionary anthropology. My arrogance leaves me when I become aware that I am not the least bit inconspicuous. A real spy would be flawlessly trained in protocol, and would willingly give change during collection, but I am too proud. So I uncross my ankles, and put on my toque. I gawk at the impressive vaulted ceiling. I smile empathetically at squirming children. I admire other lonely souls as they sing from a place deep inside.
I have a strong desire to go to confession. I’m sure I know how to confess. I’ve seen a lot of movies. I list topics in my head, as if I were preparing for a grade-school presentation. I finally settle on the topic of “lust”. This is one that they frequently pick in films. I’ll start by listing off all the men I’ve kissed in 21 years. I will explain that all these kisses were forced upon me by pushy, sick, pig-like men. I will say that every lustful man goes by the name of Lucifer himself, and that males are full ill thoughts as a direct result of thinking only on behalf of their peckers. At this time, the priest will solemnly agree. I will admit, shamefully, that I am attracted to men with sparkly blues eyes, and slender, elegant fingers, but only because they remind me of virtue of the lord himself. Then I will conclude my speech: It is men, who in their glorious form make me adore them. And then I imagine that the priest will be forgive me for my trespasses, and my total ineptness in love, and all my bad blow jobs. I will now sob crocodilian tears and ask “Will any man ever respect and love me?” And then, the priest will say “Yes my child,.. God loves all his children”. And this will confirm that all men lie.
* * * (*)
The security guard walks around purposefully. She read signs meticulously as if terrorists have left messages in code, and she checks lockers by banging the doors. She walks from one end of the station to another pretending not to notice me. This is very kind of her. I position myself in view of the front doors. This will be more dramatic I conclude. Perhaps the customer service man, who had initially dispensed my weary prescription, and would later give me the wrong bus time, twice, would offer me a pillow, or a safe position behind the counter (?). But it is the woman who gives me comfort.
“Are you waiting for a ride? There’s a red car out there waiting”
She wants to lock the doors.
“Actually,” waiting for the alternatives to make themselves clear. “No.”, I concede.
“It’s going to be a long night then.”
I nod apologetically for her, not me. “Yes”. The resignation.
Time becomes easier now. I pull out my knitting, black socks, I know I will never finish them because I hate having to make two of the same. I play my favourite Keith Jarrett album through my headphones. The 6th penguin guide to jazz on cd imposes a “* * * (*)” sentence on this album which is something I will never be able to accept.
Once, a bus arrives and its occupants file out so quickly as to annoy and depress me for a whole twenty-five minutes. I watch the clock very carefully, until Antoine arrives. He was just in a fight and “a buddy” punched him in his, now swelling, cheek. The friend was, “in the military,”. I nod, but not for the reason he thinks. “It was dumb.” he says, “about a girl”. Fair enough. He was drunk, and he admitted this to me, which I thought was nice of him. We talked about “partying” in Toronto, in Montreal, Hamilton, and everywhere either of us has ever visited, or lived, and I adopt a funny voice, because I don’t really know what “partying” means. Drinking beer and acting dumb, I think. I suppose I have “partied” before.
I munch on sunflower seeds, and he remains on a neighbouring bench, a safe distance, until six when the café opens. He buys me eggs, brown toast and coffee. He tells me I can pretend they are free range, and then laughs. I am glad he acknowledges my concern. He is a lot funnier looking up close, with wide-set deer eyes and a big head. He is a lot shorter than me, which is good because I don’t like to talk to tall strangers. He keeps ice on his face which is chubby, and swollen and it reminds me that he is a very young twenty-six. At 7:00 am, he joins the line-up for Toronto, and we shake hands. He gives me his card, which confirms his story, but I don’t offer a return contact.
* * * (*)
My 9 hole boots are the worst in the snow, especially over forty centimetres of it, they remind me to walk with conviction into asperity, five and one half hours. I want to go somewhere, because it is finally early light out, and I have just been told that the early bus does not run on sundays. The customer service man apologised for not remembering this information earlier. He mentioned going downtown, and I trusted him for no reason. I didn’t get directions, I just walked towards the big buildings.
* * * (*)
I round the corner of a heavily mirrored building and spot the presumptuous silhouettes in reflection. So soon? I forget about my slick boots, and I run clumsily and joyously through a white intersection towards the familiar backdrop. The heavily gabled rooftops are resplendent in their white trim and green copper, like winter pine bows. The glowing street lamps ripple about these towers in a forest of blackened trunks, supporting autumn puffballs, pregnant, and full of fireflies. They have been burning throughout the night, despite the downpour; the snow is falling heavy and thick. It is remembering that it is as powerful and life-giving as its liquid source. It sweeps around my lips and eyelashes like kisses, and drifts around me so fully, that I can make snow angels in the air. I see large men, frozen in dark polished stone, with white flakes tucked in their shoes and hands and elbows. Just like me. Are the yellow caterpillars moving the distance? Right now, their paths are absolutely silent. I am completely and gloriously here, and alone
* * * (*)
I was cold, and my socks were now soaked. I pee in a parking lot just before finding a Tim Horton’s. I try to order soup, but settle for hot chocolate; I know it is way too early. The sign say the loitering limit is a maximum of twenty minutes. I brush my teeth in the bathroom. I think about leaving my toothpaste foam in the sink as a political protest, but in the end I run the water and carefully use a paper towel to wipe it clean. I’m no rogue I think. But I end up peeing in the street, again, before I spot another asylum.
The mall is empty but well lit, clean and warm. The escalators move with optimism, so I go up, then down. Then again, because no one is watching. The bench is specially designed for people like me. A convex metal grate, made to deter anything but sitting for less than twenty minutes with very good posture. I push it to the corner, and lie with my arms and legs crossed, feet off the edge, so as not to be indecent or rude. I think about what I will say to security should they question me. “What if I was your daughter?”, perhaps “I’m in university”, or “I’m waiting for the stores to open”. I decide to reject the last option, because I am sitting across the LCBO.
* * * (*)
Old people smile at me as I walk in. They are pleased that such a young person has decided to brave the weather, utterly alone no less, to attend. The church is warm. I chuckle to myself at how cleverly I have fooled them. I am a spy in their midst, full of anti-catholic sentiment, and a student of evolutionary anthropology. My arrogance leaves me when I become aware that I am not the least bit inconspicuous. A real spy would be flawlessly trained in protocol, and would willingly give change during collection, but I am too proud. So I uncross my ankles, and put on my toque. I gawk at the impressive vaulted ceiling. I smile empathetically at squirming children. I admire other lonely souls as they sing from a place deep inside.
I have a strong desire to go to confession. I’m sure I know how to confess. I’ve seen a lot of movies. I list topics in my head, as if I were preparing for a grade-school presentation. I finally settle on the topic of “lust”. This is one that they frequently pick in films. I’ll start by listing off all the men I’ve kissed in 21 years. I will explain that all these kisses were forced upon me by pushy, sick, pig-like men. I will say that every lustful man goes by the name of Lucifer himself, and that males are full ill thoughts as a direct result of thinking only on behalf of their peckers. At this time, the priest will solemnly agree. I will admit, shamefully, that I am attracted to men with sparkly blues eyes, and slender, elegant fingers, but only because they remind me of virtue of the lord himself. Then I will conclude my speech: It is men, who in their glorious form make me adore them. And then I imagine that the priest will be forgive me for my trespasses, and my total ineptness in love, and all my bad blow jobs. I will now sob crocodilian tears and ask “Will any man ever respect and love me?” And then, the priest will say “Yes my child,.. God loves all his children”. And this will confirm that all men lie.
* * * (*)
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