A Thirty-Something Life: Street Walker?

View of the street from my apartment

A few days before Christmas one of my friends offered to come pick me up for a trip to the SAQ. He told me he'd be at my place in ten minutes. I went downstairs and waited for him on the sidewalk. It was about 8pm, and the temperature was below freezing, so I was pacing back and forth in my leather jacket, jeans and purse. 

About five minutes later, a minivan pulled up. I turned around at the sound of the car and started walking toward it, thinking it was my friend who was maybe driving his father's car. 

When I got to about a meter and a half away from the car, I leaned forward to see who the driver was. It was a man in his 50s, approximately 250 pounds, with a beard. He had swarthy skin and looked to be from Eastern Europe or perhaps the Middle East. He waved and I straightened up. "Of course he'd wave", I thought, "I was peering into his car." I continued to pace, getting increasingly cold in the night-time air. 

The car was still idling at the side of the street a minute later. 

I thought, "He must be waiting for someone. Maybe from one of the other apartment buildings." 

Another minute passed by and the man finally pulled away, passenger-less. And then it hit me.

"Wait."

"Wait a minute! Did HE think I was on the job?!!!! "

OH MY GOD! 

Now, I know that I live in the ghetto, but....really?!!!! Have I now been relegated to street walker status?

And then I remembered the woman who used to live below me. Apparently several different men had been seen entering and leaving her apartment. But I had had no proof of this and promptly forgot about it. 

Until that night.

So yes, ladies and gentlemen. I have now graduated to a new title, according to middle-aged men driving along St. Jacques at night. 

I sometimes surprise myself with my naivete. 

Life is never boring, is it? :)

A Thirty-Something Life: Acts of Kindness

Context: I live in the ghetto. Straight up. Even my neighbors scream it at the top of their lungs as they break down the entrance door, or my neighbor's door. You see, I live in a complex of buildings that houses, for the most part, government subsidized people. People who have been in trouble with the law. Drug addicts and alcoholics. Violent offenders that go in and out of jail. Unstable people, overall. And most of them don't work. 

In some ways, I may actually fit right in. I am currently unemployed and have been so for what feels like forever. I scrounge to find a couple of bucks here and there to buy cigarettes and a bottle of wine. Regardless...it's not really the right environment for healthy growth. On the few times I get food delivered, the delivery men say they hate coming to these buildings. I think that says it all. There is certainly never a dull moment in my building!


And this is why, in this microcosm of darkness and despair, it is always such a welcome to get an ember of light coming through.

1. Earlier this week, as I checked my mailbox, I received this little flyer wishing me a Merry Christmas. From the mailman. If there were ever a place not to wish someone happiness because of all the drama that occurs, it would be here. And yet, he did it. I've never met him (or her) and may never do so, but I think it speaks volumes for the quality of person to reach out and do something so little which can mean so much. My many thanks, Mr.Mailman, for your gift to me.


2. Tonight, I went to the depanneur and wanted to buy myself (guess?) a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes to celebrate the holiday season in my humble abode. There is a sign that clearly states that no credit is given to customers. I have been going there for nearly a year now (it's crazy how time flies). I have never asked for a thing from them, buying what I could with the money I had.

I had $20 left in my account. I approached the counter with my bottle and the owner, a middle-aged Sri Lankan (who owns the place with his wife), immediately had a pack of my preferred cigarettes waiting for me at the counter. It was the first time I hadn't had to ask him for what I wanted. It was quite a nice surprise.

I never thought he remembered my brand or cared, really. I told him I only had 20 dollars and that I couldn't afford the 25 pack. He checked the two items in. It came to 22.42. I was short. I told him I would try the 20 pack.

He asked me, "Is the 20 pack enough for you?"

"No," I said, "but I don't have the money for the 25 pack."

"Take it. You will pay me back when you have the money."

I tell you, there are tiny little moments in life, even as small as a 2 dollar loan from a corner store owner or a note from the mailman, when your faith in humanity is restored just a little bit.

Never forget those small acts of kindness in your life. They make this sometimes difficult life that much easier to bear.

And on that note, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Dismissals

It takes so many forms.


Friends

Roles unbound

Firms

Cursorily discarding a life's work

Fellows'

Fickle affections.


Pick up the pieces

There are too many.


Those glittering shards

Broken dreams

Carpet the floor.


A dangerous game

Treading across that expanse.


Which piece will stab you

Raising memories buried

Zombies awaken

Images of who you were

And still are.


A battle

Finding sleep.

A vicious war

Rising up from the sheets

Daylight seeping away.


Flashes

Unrelenting

Beating

Beating

Beating

You down.


Doesn't get any easier

Just clearer.


You don't belong here

Home but a nebulous concept.


If I could just switch it off

I could rest

A virgin mind

With virgin dreams.

A Thirty-Something Life: Fight!

Got into a fight with an STM manager tonight (Jan. 2011).

What did I get out of it?

1. A flood of frustrated tears (though I made sure not to show HIM that)

2. The JOY of being called a liar

3. The realization that it was much more a waste of time for me than for him. He had to be there.

p.s. I refuse to become one of those cynics that figure there's no point in standing up for what is right even though you almost never get what you want.

A Thirty-Something Life: Compliments

Last night (Jan. 2011), an older man in a bar came up to me and told me in French, "You are a perfect example of genetic success."

I think it made both our night.

He had been practicing his line, obviously, because he tripped on his words as he said it. But it seemed to make him happy to have used it.

I got a good inner chuckle at the cheese of it all.

Win-win!

A Thirty-Something Life: Root Beer Slushie

So, I was minding my own business the other day (2011), on my way to work.

I was not 15 meters from my home when bus 67 whisked by and doused me in my first root beer slushie.

From foot to shoulder.

Covered in slush, I dipped into my bag where I found a napkin. I started to clean myself off, thoroughly unimpressed by this experience. I looked up at the corner and the 47 drove by, my ride to work.

I sighed.

I've never liked root beer.

A Thirty-Something Life: Stinky Feet

The other day (2010, actually) I was minding my own business at work (I mind my own business quite a lot!) when later in the afternoon I started to smell something funny. Pretty bloody smelly, actually. It smelled like stinky feet after an hour playing basketball. I immediately assumed it must be my feet.

You see, I had recently destroyed my brown boots which I've had for many years. It was a good companion. But I was not expecting all the snow this year, nor the accompanying salt. The salt had eaten into the leather of my boots and no vinegar/water combo would help that. I tried buying leather protector which only served to destroy my boots further as the sealant magnified the salt-eaten leather by painting it a bright shade of white that even I was impresssed with.

So, anyway, back to the story. The stinky feet...As I was still wearing these now awful-looking boots, I started to think that the chemical reaction I had jumpstarted had somehow reached my socks and was causing them to stink. It was very embarassing, because I assumed everyone could smell it. So I went to the bathroom and smelled my booted feet. No smell. My feet were not the culprit.



Époisses de Bourgogne



I returned to my desk and the smell was there again. I looked over to my colleague. Under his desk was a gym bag. Aha! THIS must be the culprit. Dude forgot to empty out his stinky clothes from last night's workout. Yucky! I was not impressed, but held my tongue.

But when he left later that day, the smell lingered. I should have known it wasn't him. He's Asian after all!

So I rifled through my desk, thinking that I had perhaps left some food in one of the drawers. I opened each drawer and sniffed, like a dog on a walk (thankfully most of my colleagues had already left for the day). I went through each of the three drawers twice. Finally it seemed as though the smell was coming from the bottom drawer, where I had my lunch bag. I thought back to what I had eaten that day and couldn't put the pieces together. I started to empty out the bag and my hand encountered something soft and malleable.

I pulled it out. It was the Époisses de Bourgogne I had bought the night before at Première Moisson.

This lovely cheese is now stinking up my fridge, where it belongs!

A Thirty-Something Life: Metro

In the springtime of 2010, I was working for a little company out west and had to take the metro everyday to and from Namur metrol. By the time I would find myself a seat in a car, I would sink down and listen to my MP3 player with my eyes closed.

As it was one of those warm days in May, I took off my jacket, revealing a short-sleeved top. Luckily, I had found a single seat and was leaning against the window, my left elbow on the ledge and my head in my hand. My right arm was placed on my purse and I drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by the music and the movement of the metro car.

We were a few stops away from Berri-Uqam and the car had become full to bursting. People latched onto the metal bars all around me, but I kept my eyes closed and focused on the music.

A man stood above me, swishing back and forth with the rhythm of the metro. I could feel his presence hovering over me. I ignored him. And then...he sneezed. As soon as I heard that sneeze (yes I heard it above the music blasting through the earphones), I heard the tell-tale sign of impending moisture. A split-second later, a sizeable glob of his mucus found its way to my right elbow.

Utterly disgusted, but not at all surprised, I opened my eyes and looked into the man's. He gave me the 'oh-crap-did-I-do-that?' look and shrugged. I reached into my purse and found a partially used sheet of tissue paper. And I wiped myself off. The man turned away and then got off the metro at Berri-Uqam, never looking back. I held the tissue paper with the tips of my fingers until I, too, got off the metro a few stops later. I went straight to the garbage bin, tossed the hated evidence of my recent attack into the bin and hurried home where I rushed to the bathroom and diligently scrubbed my elbow and hands until I felt a little less dirty.

There is something to be said about always having tissue paper with you. But sometimes I wonder if the laws of attraction are at work here. Do I often find myself in these types of situations because I have the means to decrease the effects of such 'attacks'?

I'm thinking of banning tissues from my purse. But it'll have to wait until winter is over. The city of Montreal will thank me for not submitting it to my perpetual runny nose.