Monday 31 December 2012

Something Short


   Marshall waited for the countdown to finish. Surrounded by champagne drinking pals, he clutched his own glass of bubbly with a fierce enough grip to shatter it into sand-sized pieces. The television was too loud, the lights in the room too bright, and he was certain somebody had puked underneath the table behind him. Herbal smoke kept finding his nostrils, like an acquaintance that won't take a hint to leave. There were people in this room he despised and likewise who thought of him as no more than gravel on a dirty sidewalk. These were not people he would choose to begin a brand new year with. A new opportunity, a new chance was at hand and the environment around him was unbearably shallow and superficial. But she was here, in his arms, her soft hair and sweet face cradled against his chest like he was the most important man in the world. Marshall was exactly where he wanted to be tonight: wherever she was.     

Monday 24 December 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge Part XIII: Lemm's Monologue




Part XIII --- Lemm's Monologue


A BAR, decorated for Christmas. Two characters (bar rats) sit on stools with drinks in front of them, while LEMM stands behind the bar, facing the audience. LEMM is dressed in a white dress shirt, black bow-tie and black apron


LEMM: A lotta people ask me around this time of the year: "What're you doing working in this dump? Don't you have friends or family or someone you can spend time with? A pet, maybe?" Well, I've never been able to answer that one. I always just smile and nod and say "I don't mind the work" or "I could use the money" But really, I don't know what the answer is.

One of the bar rats coughs loudly

LEMM: Do I have anyone? Sure, I guess there's my folks. They live just north of town but I hate that bus ride to get up there. Most of my friends go away for the holidays, some go back home and others somewhere warm and tropical. The thought of Christmas Eve on a beach is a little weird to me. Got a cousin who lives here in the city. He indulges in the herbs too much. Usually he doesn't remember my name.

The same bar rat coughs loudly again

LEMM: You want another one Gus?

The bar rat nods. LEMM begins fixing up a drink behind the bar while still facing the audience

LEMM: Yeah, I don't mind working the long hours alone here. Everyone else is where they belong on Christmas Eve and I guess so am I. The people that come here around this time of year are friendly, good hearted people. (one of the bar rats lets out a tremendous belch) I had a girl I'd spend time with a few years back. I remember we spent one Christmas Eve together. I shut down the bar early, she came and met me here, then we went on this walk downtown to the waterfront. There was snow everywhere, it got in our boots! And it was so cold. Wind howling. Didn't seem to care though, neither of us. (LEMM puts the drink he was making in front of the bar rat "GUS") Yeah, happy to be warm tonight though, inside here. Dreadfully cold outside I'm sure. Dreadfully.

The other bar rat puts his head down on the bar and begins to snore, loudly at first but then becomes quieter

LEMM: I've had some great Christmas Eves here, lemme tell ya! Uh, yeah there was last year when old Gus here thought the pool table chalk was a pimento so he put it in his beer! And a couple years ago, old Gus was hungry and had already eaten all the peanuts in the coin machine. So he thought the urinal cakes in the bathroom would make a fine dessert! Ha, oh the fun we've had. Oh the emergency numbers we've called.

LEMM goes quiet for a moment as he reflects upon the stories he just told, though his expression becomes less proud of them the longer he is silent

LEMM: Looks like snowfall outside. How about that. Hmmmmm. Probably nice by the water tonight. Hey Gus, what time you got? Almost 8:30, right?

Bar rat "GUS" nods

LEMM: All right! Last call everyone! Take your time but I'm closing early tonight! Happy holidays!


CURTAIN
  

Sunday 23 December 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge Part XII: Viva Los Holidads!




Part XII --- Viva Los Holidads!


'Come on Jimmy open it up!'

It was Christmas morning in the Faulkes household and the entire family was there. Young, middle-aged and old all gathered in a circle around ten year old Jimmy, who was first to open his presents.

'Hurry up, Smelly! We'd like to open our gifts too!' groaned Jimmy's older brother Craig.

Without delay Jimmy grabbed his first present and tore the wrapping to shreds. It was from his mother: a brand new baseball mitt. Jimmy's parents were journalists and unfortunately were on assignment in Belgium this Christmas, but Jimmy looked out the window and thanked them whether they were.

'Open mine next, Jimmy!' said Uncle Rodgess.

Jimmy found his uncle's gift conveniently atop the others, immaculately wrapped and taped. Ten year old children however are not known for precision when opening gifts, especially during winter holidays. Jimmy ripped it open and was incredibly excited: it was a video game.

'Spelling Blaster 3000!' said Uncle Rodgess happily. 'The lady in the store said it's what every cool kid is playing!'

Jimmy's excitement vanished instantly but he put on a grateful face and thanked his uncle. Next was a present from his little sister, Didi. It was not well taped or wrapped, instead several crayon marks were all over it. Jimmy let the wrapping fall off and found a plastic doll with an arm missing, the remaining limbs also covered by crayon. He smiled at his little sister, who tried to clap her tiny hands but fell over onto the carpet.

'You're going to love my gift, Jimmy.' declared his Auntie Carol.

Old enough to know a clue, Jimmy found her present and opened it next. It was a brownish-green sandwich sealed not tightly in a ziploc bag. Jimmy looked up at his aunt, confused.

'It's an organic eggs, beets and vine sprout sandwich!' said Auntie Carol proudly
'It's smells funny...' said Jimmy, looking over the greenish parts of it.
'That's flavour, Jimmy Wimmy! One bite of that will add years to your life! And make you look so much younger too!'

Jimmy smiled politely and grabbed his next present. It was from his older brother Craig and in an envelope.

'I.O.U: "One punch in the arm." Hey what does that... Ow!'

Rubbing his shoulder, Jimmy set his eyes on a present from Uncle Gerald, although now he insisted the family call him Hanzel-Singh-De-Candalario-Singh-Sundah-Flowers. Jimmy opened his eccentric uncle's present, disappointed to find the same book his uncle gave him every year.

'Humanity's Place In The Cosmic Scheme of Singhism. What a... surprise...' groaned Jimmy.
'Absolutely!' said Uncle Gerald, oblivious to the look of crushed enthusiasm on his nephew's face. 'You see, Jimmy, there's a powerful, all mighty force out there that has a plan for all of us. You, me, the trees, the sea, Sean Bean. All of us. And have you ever wondered about--'
'Gerald! Enough! It's bad enough we have to listen to you. Leave the kid out of this...' said Auntie Carol sharply.

Jimmy did not like being called a kid and as he realized he had reached his last present his heart was damp with unhappiness. It was from his father: another envelope, which made Jimmy even more uncomfortable as his shoulder still stung from the last one. He opened it and found only a letter and four small cards inside. Jimmy read to himself:

'Hey son. I know it's hard on you with your mom and I away so much but here's something to make your days a little better. In this envelope are four cards that you can use at anytime for whatever you want, ice cream or pizza or whatever. Show it to your Auntie Carol or your Uncle Rodgess and they'll know. Use them wisely and know that we love you so much! Love: Mum and Dad.

Jimmy read the letter twice to let it all sink in for him. After that, he took one of the cards from the envelope, took a look at the green sandwich and knew what he wanted.

'Oh Auntie Carol...'



    



    




Saturday 22 December 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge Part XI: The Wind At My Back





    The rarest sight for any cyclist is when the tree branches are pointing away from you. That is, when a strong wind is pushing you in just the direction you're going.
    This wind is so rare that all veteran cyclists are automatically suspicious of any breeze they encounter. It takes them a moment to realize this wind is not like the ones they battle fifty-one weeks of the year: here comes not a foe but a friend. Even when the sensation comes it is mistrusted, for memories of the opposite are always fresher in experience.
   The mindset becomes different when being escorted through town by breezes. It is the sudden relief of support and the startling fear of lacking control. It is like being taken by the hand into a television studio and watching a clone of yourself do the work you were about to do. It is like watching a home run sail over the fence while you stand at second base. It is like being shoved in the back by nature, but it's just the shove you need and you don't mind several more.
   It is the dream that doesn't come when you sleep, and in waking is the absent deity.

   ------------------

   I've sometimes felt that the strength of the wind with or against you suggests the nature of the path you are taking. Often it seems as though the destination becomes more challenging by the block: complications of the place and people, the safety shortcomings of your ride, reasons why you would never have left your house, all thoughts that gain force in your mind as the winds grow in fierceness.
   I remember one night I was set to ride across town to meet some friends of mine who were finishing work. They were in the Annex while I at the time lived in the western side of Toronto, so it was a ride that promised to be rough regardless of conditions. Still, the promise of some beers with good company was enough for me to pedal onward. It wasn't until I got to the first hill, an underpass wedged between Keele and Old Weston that the gusts hit me. Riding against a hard wind is like trying to walk through a sandy beach with the enormous hand of a god pushing you backwards. By the time I reached the top of the hill I was already exhausted, and I could still see the closest intersection to my house.
   Being brave or foolish, probably both, I kept going. The wind would have none of that. I came upon another hill and began descending, only to realize the force against me was so strong I actually had to pedal to get down the slope. That was enough: I turned my wheels right around and let the spearhead of the breeze nudge me back the way I came.
   As it turned out, the friends I was going to meet up with that night got into a pretty heated altercation with each another. Had I put my head down and forced my way through the unreasonable winds I would've been rewarded with an awkward situation at best. The moral of this tale? If something is hard, give up! Nah, I'm kidding. This is just a tale, oblivious to any personal experiences you may have. Like a hard wind there is nothing with a motive here. We may think it's always against us (I know I do!) but it is simply a force of nature, perhaps sometimes paralleling our present existence. 
        

Thursday 20 December 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge Part X: Mundrake's Monologue





Part X --- Mundrake's Monologue


     A most peculiar thing happened to me on my way to work this morning: an incident which I feel deserves at least a brief retelling, if not publication in a national newspaper.
     My name is Mundrake Parker. I'm employed by a liquor store in the industrial part of town. As I have no car or bicycle I'm forced to rely upon public transportation, which in my modestly sized town is unreliable at best. I estimate I've culminated at least a day of my life waiting for the bus that takes me closest to work, and that is what I was doing when this remarkable incident occurred.
    At the bus stop with me were three other men, all dressed in identical black suits and carrying identical briefcases. One was taller than the rest and was bearded, while the other two were clean shaven and of similar build and height. I paid no attention to them until one of the shorter ones began to speak:

   'What'd McCormick say? Five o'clock?'
   'Five o'clock. That's when they open the safe.' said another short one.
   'This job's really got me nervous. Feels like we bein' followed.' said the tall one, glancing at me.

   I began to feel dreadfully nervous, for these gentlemen were up to something devious! Certainly it was in my best interest to stay away, but curiousity is a hungry chap and I opened my ears further.

   'Whaddya think? Hostages?
   'Nah, leave no survivors.' replied the tall one, glancing again at me menacingly.

   At this point I pretended to look at the bus schedule from my pocket but I could tell these criminals were onto me. I heard one of their briefcases open with a click and thought for sure it was a gun. The bus was coming and without thinking I threw my knapsack at the tallest man and ran behind the approaching bus for cover. Before any shots could be fired, however, seven armed federal agents poured out of the bus and demanded the surrender of the suited men. I peeked out confused from my cover to see explosives, firearms, fake passports and airplane tickets all upon the ground where their briefcase had opened. The leader of the feds marched up to me and shook my hand, a tremendous grin on his moustached face.

   'Great work, lad! Great work! We've been trying to apprehend this gang for months now and your subtle bus schedule look was the tell that these were the men we were looking for!'
   'Uh... thanks...' replied I.
   'Which division are you assigned to lad? Special Ops? Fraud Detection?'
   'Sal's Liquor and Smokes...'
   'Excellent, excellent! Tell your supervisor a special commendation is coming your way!'

   I was, of course, late for work. When I tried to explain to my boss that it wasn't my fault, and that a special commendation was coming my way, he seemed about as convinced as you'd expect, and promptly ordered me to clean up his bathroom downstairs. I'm pretty sure he spent all of last night eating bean and pork burritos. It wasn't until the feds showed up with a plaque of my commendation that he believed me, or when they arrested him for creating a dangerous biohazard in that same bathroom. Hey, these federal guys do good work.



Wednesday 19 December 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge Part IX: The Missing Wallet



Part IX --- The Missing Wallet


     George discovered his pockets much emptier than they had been one hour earlier, when he had bumped into a shady gentleman on Cartwright Street. This stranger had been in such a hurry that he walked straight into George with any warning or apology. Also, in haste to continue on his way he didn't notice an envelope fall out of his jacket pocket. On it was scribbled: "Ruby's Diner, 5pm" and that was where George was waiting, the envelope on the table in front of him.
     Ruby's Diner was strongly retro themed: every inch and corner of the place was like a time machine spinning out of control. George found it nauseating, really. The waitress though was attractive, wearing a power blue dress that clearly was not the uniform of the place. Her bold red lipstick made her face explode with the life of another time, her smile only tripling that effect.

     'Can I get you anything?' she asked. Her gold name tag read: Angeline.
     'I'm fine, thanks. Just waiting for a friend.' replied George politely.

     He watched her walk back behind the counter, her tangerine hair rolling about her shoulders as she went. This woman was positively hypnotizing to middle aged George, who had put on some pounds in recent years but still considered himself modestly attractive. He was unbearably tempted to go up and talk to her but did not know what to say. Then, the shady character from Cartwright Street stepped inside the diner. He spotted George immediately and was not happy.

    'What the hell're you doin' here? Who are you? Where's my envelope?' he demanded.
    'Where's my wallet? It's been been missing since I bumped into you!' countered George.
    'What, dis thing?' said the stranger, tossing a black wallet onto the table. 'Useless, ain't it? Not even any good family photos or coupons!'

    George checked his wallet and found everything valuable accounted for.

    'Well I think that concludes our business. I'll be on my way then.' said George, standing up.
    'Wait! What about my envelope?'

    George snatched the envelope off the table before the stranger could grab it. He held it close to his eyes pretending to examine it, enjoying how uncomfortable it made the ruffian across from him.

    'What, this? I wonder what's in here. Maybe I should take a look...' George pondered aloud.
    'You don't want to do that, mate.' warned the stranger.
    'What's in here? Drugs? Laundered money? Some kind of conspiracy scheme?'
    'Trust me. You're better off not knowing.'
    'Nonsense.'

   George ripped open the envelope and let whatever was inside fall onto the table below. All that came out was a photograph, which again George grabbed before the stranger could. The colours were bright and crisp, as though fresh from a printing shop. It made him feel dizzy.

   'It's.... it's me and...' mumbled George, the diner melting around him, '...it's me and Angeline! At a wedding! Our wedding...'

   For several seconds George blacked out and was not aware of where he was. When the diner came back into view he discovered the stranger and he had traded places. The stranger was also wearing his clothes, had his wallet in hand, and an enormous grin on his face.

   'I tried to warn you, didn't I? Well, I'm going to go talk to that lovely girl over there. I think we're going to get along fine, don't you? Goodbye!'

   The stranger jumped up from his seat and confidently approached Angeline, who within a moment of conversation was smiling and laughing. George, if that still was his name, took another peek at the photograph, seeing the stranger was now in his place.

   'Can I order the tuna salad, please?' 


    

Monday 17 December 2012

550 Words A Day Part VIII: An Uninformed Look At The Dickey Trade

                                                                           (photo belongs to aolsports)


Part VIII --- An Uninformed look at the Dickey Trade


Instead of being picky, the Blue Jays went and got Dickey!

Okay, we got that out of the way.

With the trade between the Blue Jays and Mets 99% official now that R.A. Dickey has signed a contract extension with Toronto, here are some brief initial thoughts on the deal.

One: that all the injuries to Blue Jays pitchers last season really got to General Manager Alex Anthopolous. With Drabek, Hutchison and Luis Perez all needing Tommy John surgery, Anthopolous has traded for a pitcher who doesn't even have the UCL ligament they replace in that procedure! Now sure, what happened last summer to the team was a calamity and unlikely to happen again (unless fate is truly a cruel mistress), but beyond J.A. Happ the depth of the starting rotation was not inspiring. While strong on paper, they would've been one Josh Johnson elbow explosion or a hard comebacker off Brandon Morrow away from serious problems. This trade helps with that.

Two: I'm not a huge fan of Travis d'Arnaud. Scouts say shiny things about his tools and his numbers the past few seasons look pretty, but I think he's closer to J.P. Arencibia than Buster Posey. Also, this isn't the first time the Blue Jays have had an impressive young catcher who struggles with injuries (remember Quillermo Quiroz?) and the reality is that the catcher position grinds your body down. I like d'Arnaud's chances of becoming an above average major league catcher, I really do, but the risks that come with him make it seem like Toronto is trading one gamble for another in this deal.

Three: I like Noah Syndergaard. A lot. I think pitchers with his size, fastball velocity, good control and age (especially!) are exceptionally rare. It stinks to lose him.

Four: Josh Johnson's pending free agency. The way contracts for free agent starting pitchers are going, Johnson could easily get something well over the 100 million dollar range. With Dickey locked up for the next three seasons, retaining Johnson after 2013 (while nice) is not crucial to the team's success.

Five: Knuckleballs are fun to watch. Seriously. I remember having the opportunity to sit behind home plate and watch Tim Wakefield pitch a game in his final season. I can't recall ever seeing major league hitters look so uncomfortable, and Wakefield didn't even pitch well.

Six: People are worried about Dickey's transition from the NL East where pitchers bat to the AL East where pitchers consider new lines of work. It's a legitimate concern, but I believe Dickey has an advantage because he has such a unique pitch that the American League is unfamiliar with. I mean, he'd been doing rounds in the National League for three seasons, facing teams that had seen him several times and they still couldn't hit him. That knuckleball makes me nervous in Yankee Stadium or Fenway Park though.

Seven: That contract is a bargain. Even if Dickey's more 2011 than 2012, that's still pretty damn good.

Eight: Definitely a vote of confidence for Arencibia, who from his twitter reactions genuinely seems like he wants to be here. Say what you will about his short comings, it can't hurt to have a guy like that around.

Nine: A lot of fans are crying about the farm system being depleted. Nonsense. We were short on position players anyway (and I'm so glad we kept Anthony Gose through all of this) and there are still enough pitchers down there to ogle if that's your thing. I know I'm excited to see what Sanchez, Nolin, Osuna, Stroman, Smoral and Norris can do in the next few seasons.

Overall, acquiring R.A. Dickey makes the 2013 Blue Jays a better team more realistically than d'Arnaud and Syndergaard would've. Could this trade hurt in a few years? Definitely. Probably. But clearly this team wants to win now and hey, I'm on board with that.
  



Sunday 16 December 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge (VII) The Way Home Part Two



(I've decided as a writing exercise to write 550 words everyday for two weeks and see what I come up with. The subject matter and narrative will not be limited to anything, and I will only be allowed to edit what I write once)

Part VII --- The Way Home (Part Two)


     continued from Wednesday


     Beyond that we come across Millwood Road, a street that a block to the west meets itself and thus is the nexus of the universe. We continue straight and the road begins to bend, distorting your sense of direction. Eventually Overlea Blvd greets us on the left, a path leading towards Science Centres and Don Mills but not home. Now we are escaping Leaside and the long bridge over the Don Valley Parkway bids us goodbye with an incredible view of the city seeming so far away, surprisingly.
      The path splits in two directions once the bridge concludes so we make a left. This is the beginning of Donlands Avenue and while this section of road is as wide as a highway it is lined with houses on either side. The question approaches your mind how the residents of these homes ever get to sleep while living beside such traffic, but as O'Connor appears around the bend the thought fades away unanswered. At the corners of O'Connor and Donlands a closed breakfast chain makes you hungry, a pub makes you lonely, a Beer Store makes you thirsty and a pizza joint makes you wonder what's in your fridge.
    Going east along O'Connor is severely unremarkable but fortunately Greenwood is not far. We turn on Greenwood and immediately wonder how such a narrow street could one: have two way traffic and parked cars and two: have a subway station named after it. Greenwood as a "major" street though possesses a rare thing that Yonge, Mount Pleasant, Laird, Donlands and O'Connor lacks: quietness. The roar of O'Connor drive fades rapidly as you speed down Greenwood and you feel at peace, happy to be away from the bustle and traffic. A ride through East York may seem dull and repetitive but at least that feeling of danger has been left behind from where you came. By the time Cosburn and Greenwood comes to your eyes and Dieppe Park on the left pokes at your curiousity, you realize you're almost home and that you just might make it there.
    Greenwood narrows the more south you go (at least until Danforth) but we turn at Glebeholme before the road squeezes our wheels. This street is filled with trees and colourful lawns and holiday decorations and you wish you'd remembered your camera. Well, there's always next time.


   As a personal sidenote to this journey, an old childhood friend of mine used to live around Mortimer and Greenwood, and so everytime I go by it's a bizarre experience for me. It's a sort of sensation where two sets of memories in my mind are clashing with each other. The Younger Me remembers taking the Mortimer bus (63 I think) to Greenwood and seeing a variety store on the south-east corner across the street from my friend's house. What's bizarre is that in my recollection the intersection is only vivid from a certain angle, so now that Older Me passes through there fairly frequently I'm seeing it from a different perspective. The variety store is still there, but seeing it so often now from a different side of the street makes it seem familiar as though from a dream. I suppose it's interesting how we recall places by the position we see them from, and how these places can appear strange to us when that position is changed.

Wednesday 12 December 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge (VI) The Way Home




(I've decided as a writing exercise to write 550 words everyday for two weeks and see what I come up with. The subject matter and narrative will not be limited to anything, and I will only be allowed to edit what I write once)

*I realize that yes, I missed a day. Will make it up eventually

--------------

Part V --- The Way Home


        First I must mention that I quit my job last week. And to be honest, it's probably one of the best decisions I've ever made. When I gave my notice at my last job, "Super Libretto Pizza Land", it was a sad moment for me. I'd worked there for a long period of time and realized one day there was nothing left for me there. It's hard to say goodbye to a place you respect and people you like, knowing that you can't be a part of what that wonderful thing is anymore.
       Quitting this job was nothing like that. I imagined the moment of quitting constantly to keep myself going throughout the day. I won't get into the many specifics of what was so rotten about this gig (and why would you want to hear it anyway) but lets just say life is too short and fleeting to be trapped somewhere you don't want to be.

      Anyhow! The only aspect of this job I am going to miss is the journey to get there/get the hell away from there. I'm a bicycling enthusiast, and while my job is in the Eglinton/Yonge area I live in the midst of East York (Greenwood/Coxwell-ish). It doesn't stop me from riding there when I'm willing and able (a.k.a. all the time) and so I shall take you along with me on such a journey, which according to Google Maps is about 9 km. We shall be starting from Yonge/Eglinton instead of my house, as that is a much more pleasant trip for me.

      Here we are: Yonge and Sherwood, riding with the treacherous traffic south along Yonge. Let's make a left turn here at Erskine and avoid the certain doom of the many fast moving cars. The mix of apartment towers and impressive houses on Erskine gives way to another busy street: Mount Pleasant. Mt. Pleasant is more residential than the business oriented Yonge but the traffic level is still hazardous. We slide along Mt. Pleasant, past Northern and Eglinton and an army of convenience stores, until we reach Soudan Avenue, an east/west side street.
     Wait for a gap in traffic and away we go. Soudan is lined with houses of all shapes and sizes, colours and classes, yet all of them have interesting front lawns for some reason. Soudan twists into Parkhurst Blvd, probably the straightest running street in this new neighbourhood. After a downward hill and many stop signs we come upon Laird, industrial in name and features. Yet this is a developing area: brand new strip malls adorn the left side of the road as we go, some of the stores not even open for business. This stretch has been designed to have everything from liquor stores to bulk-buy outlets to a cell-phone outlet across the way. The streets there are parking lots and the buildings indistinguishable from each other, but the newness of the place warrants further exploration.

 (unfortunately I have exceeded my word-count limit. Come back tomorrow for the conclusion, and more!)  



 

Tuesday 11 December 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge Reboot: The Twenty Nine


(I've decided as a writing exercise to write 550 words everyday and see what I come up with. The subject matter and narrative will not be limited to anything, and I'm only allowed to edit what I write once)


Part V --- The Twenty-Nine


The setting is a bus stop with a green bench beside it. Three people wait in a row by the sign: PARKER, a well dressed salesman holding a suitcase, GUNBY, a casually dressed young man with a guitar bag over his shoulder, and SIBELLA, a teenage female hockey player on her way to a game (hockey stick in hand, enormous sports bag by her feet. All three give off body language that they've been waiting for a while

 
GUNBY: Damn 29. The 29 is always late.

PARKER: Is it now?

GUNBY: Everytime. I always have to wait at least fifteen minutes for it.

PARKER: Wouldn't know. I'm not from this area.

GUNBY: Me neither. I'm across town. Bank district I like to call it.

PARKER: Sounds interest-ing.

GUNBY: I like to think so, man.

PARKER: Normally I don't take public transportation. Too slow, really. But today I'm heading into a neighbourhood with such terrible parking I have no other choice.

GUNBY: What's your business there?

PARKER: Have you heard of the Grand Electron Corporate Dynamo Group?

GUNBY: No.

PARKER: Well I sell payment plans for them.

GUNBY: Payment plans?

PARKER: Yes. Door to door.

GUNBY: What kind of payment plans?

PARKER: Oh, a bit of everything.

GUNBY: And where does it go?

PARKER: Here, there. Sometimes everywhere. And really, the destination isn't a big part of it.

GUNBY: More so the 'paying' part.

PARKER: Exactly. As far as you know, it's going towards whatever you want.

GUNBY: Can it go towards not having to wait fifteen minutes for the bus?

SIBELLA: Why not just arrive here ten minutes later?

GUNBY: But then I'll miss the bus!

PARKER: He's got a point there.

GUNBY(to Sibella): You a basketball player?

SIBELLA: Hockey.

GUNBY: Is that the one with the touchdowns?

SIBELLA: Not a sports fan I take it.

GUNBY: Hey now, I enjoy sports. I like the game where the two rich guys in suits argue back and forth with big words for like three hours.

SIBELLA: You mean a political debate?

GUNBY: Maybe. It's the one where the commentators are always talking about 'points' but there's no score.

PARKER: I prefer when the two guys, or sometimes one guy one girl, are sitting behind a big desk with screens behind them and talk about things that are happening in the world, whatever sport that is.

SIBELLA(to herself): Geez, this bus does take a while...

PARKER: Say young lady, have you ever heard of Grand Electron Corporate Dynamo Group?

SIBELLA: I think I saw them featured in one of those 'sports' you just mentioned, and it wasn't a very good game.

GUNBY(to Parker): How do I get on board with one of these payment plans you mentioned?

PARKER: Do you have a credit card?

GUNBY: Do I ever!

PARKER: Great! Now I have some forms for you to fill out... (opens his suitcase and begins rummaging through) Banking information, place of birth, mother's maiden name, power of attorney, nothing too big...

SIBELLA: The bus is coming.

GUNBY: Bus?

PARKER: Now, I am going to need a sizeable cash payment up front.

GUNBY: Is it okay if I give you my chequebook instead?

SIBELLA: Not in service? Come on! (turning to the audience) Oh well, beats waiting for the Queen streetcar.

(on cue, PARKER's suitcase pops open and nothing but shredded newpapers spill onto the stage)


CURTAIN







Saturday 1 December 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge (IV) Lionel and Gerry




(I've decided as a writing exercise to write 550 words everyday for two weeks and see what I come up with. The subject matter and narrative will not be limited to anything, and I will only be allowed to edit what I write once)


Part IV --- Lionel and Gerry


       It was a face Gerry knew better than perhaps anybody: the black hair was longer and wilder, the cheeks thinner and creased with age, the once determined lips now cracked from exposure to cold weather, but the crooked nose and the wide green eyes and cauliflower ears were still as they had always been. This was Lionel McCarthy, an old acquaintance to Gerry and a man driven by image and success.
      They made eye contact and for a brief moment Lionel did not recognize him. Five uncomfortable seconds of staring passed until at last the unfamiliarity evaporated.

      'Gerry Sanchez! You scoundrel you! How long has it been!'
      'Six years come November.'
      'At Bob Parin's cottage, right?'
      'Something like that.' replied Gerry.

      Lionel did not dress as immaculately as he had in the past. Neither was his grooming as careful, for his skin seemed rough from spotty shaving and a lack of soap. His shoes were caked with dirt and the seams along the sides were bursting towards the ground. Gone were the suit and ties he was notorious for wearing at any occasion, replaced by a brown overcoat and stained blue jeans that had not seen his better days.

      'What are you up to these days, old boy? Still pushing pencils and typing buttons for ILC?' asked Lionel.
      'Yeah, same old ILC. Became an assistant director of office resources a few years back. Boring work but I've ever minded it.'
     'Sounds like the Steady Gerry we've always known!' said Lionel, without the faintest admiration.

     A smell of damp unwashed socks slowly drifted into Gerry's nostrils and he attempted not to retch. It was the most foul scent he had ever encountered, and that included his three month stint volunteering at the homeless shelter near the sewage plant. Lionel continued to grin, unaware or indifferent of the disturbing odour.

     'How... are you doing, Lionel? Everything all right with you these days?'
     'What a foolish question, old boy! Everything is better than ever! I quit those bastards at Richards and Parker to become a private consultant! Oh, things are better than ever, better than ever.'

      Gerry and Lionel shook hands and said their goodbyes as if they had seen each other yesterday. As he began to walk away, Gerry turned back and called his old acquaintance back.

     'Are you sure you don't need anything? Maybe I can talk to some folks at ILC and...'
     'You're being silly and ridiculous, old boy. I don't need anybody's help, never ever will. Worry about yourself and that one-lane-street job of your's.'
     'All right, Lionel.' said Gerry quietly.
     'Exactly, old boy! Now don't keep me any longer, I have so many more appointments this evening! We surely must catch up some more soon. Perhaps at Bob Parin's cottage in a few weeks? See you then!'

     Gerry waved good bye to his friend and continued on his way. As he went, he could not shake an uncomfortable thought from his mind: Bob Parin had moved to Spain four years before.
     

    

Friday 30 November 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge (III) Sound Check




(I've decided as a writing exercise to write 550 words everyday for two weeks and see what I come up with. The subject matter and narrative will not be limited to anything, and I will only be allowed to edit what I write once)

-----------------

Part III --- Sound Check


Two young people standing in a crowd of seventy. One male, one female, an empty stage in front of them. The large room is dimly lit, underground, with ceramic tiled walls for better acoustics.

'Dean, what time were they supposed to come on?'
       'I told you, eleven!'
'You did no such thing.'
       'I've told you like, at least six times by now. God, Sara, you're sooooo forgetful.'
'You definitely didn't tell me. I would've remembered.'
       'Yeah, like you remembered where this place is.'
'The streetcar confused me. It made that right turn at Parliament. It was the detour's fault.'
       'That streetcar like, always turns at Parliament.'
'No it doesn't. I know, I used to live right there.'
       'Right where?'
'On Parliament!' 
      'Of course. Hey is Fenton coming?'
'Doesn't look like it. He's gotta study for this CAE or something.'
       'Dag. What about Hayward?'
'Dinner with the folks. They live in Burlington, poor bastard.'
       'Yeah that's a trek. How about Cy? He's gotta make it, this is like, his favourite band!'
'No clue. I know he went pre-drinking with the Carters so... probably in a ditch somewhere.'
       'Sara, does this like mean it's just us?'
'Looks like it.'
       'Huh.'
'Huh indeed.'
       'Yep.'
'Yep yep.'
       'Quite.'
'Mmmmmm hmmmmm.'
      'Yah.'
'Yeah.'
      'Well.'
'Yup.'
      '...try giving Craig a call.'
'Damn. Don't get reception down here.'
     'You like, win again, crappy cell phone coverage!'
'Wanna get a drink at the bar?'
     'Nah I'm good. Not a fan of Mudweiser.'
'You call it "Mudweiser?"'
     'They call it "Mudweiser" here. Look at the tap.
'Wow. That's filthy. Bet the bartenders have to wash their hands a lot.'
     'Yeah. It's like, popular with the pigs though.'
'What do you like to drink?'
      'I'm a fan of liquids. Some solids.'
'Good one.'
      'Thank you, thank you, I'm here all night. Don't try the Mudweiser.'
'Dean, what time do you have?
      'Eleven-twenty.'
'And what time were they supposed to come on?'
      'Like I said, eleven.'
'You never said that.'
      'I like, so totally did! We need like, a transcript of our conversation so I can prove it.'
'Yeah, good luck with that.'
      'Hey, I see Cy! By the bar there!'
'Really?'
      'Yeah! No wait, that's just a beer stained dartboard.'
'The resemblance is uncanny though.'
      'Like, seriously. 
'Listen, Dean. There's something I want to talk to you about.'
      'The bullseye is kinda like his mouth.'
'Dean, we've started hanging out a lot more these days.'
      'His beard does look like a number 19...'
'And I've discovered I really like spending time with you. Really like it.'
      'I think his head like, might be more circular though...'
'So what I wanna say is, I... would you, will you... I... this is really hard to say.'
      'Hey the show's like, starting! Maybe really loud music will help you say it, Sara, whatever it is!'
'God damn it. What time were these dopes supposed to start again?'






Thursday 29 November 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge (II) A Squirrel






(I've decided as a writing exercise to write 550 words everyday for two weeks and see what I come up with. The subject matter and narrative will not be limited to anything, and I will only be allowed to edit what I write once)


Part II --- A Squirrel


         I knew this silver car and I knew these streets but they were unfamiliar to me: these were the same houses I had seen hundreds of times before. Along the sidewalk I saw a brown squirrel, frolicking through the short grass of the well-kept front lawns. It was pleasant but distracting from my immediate task of finding a way out of here.
        A street sign appeared to at least give this place a title: Fallsdale Road and Sixteen. It was a quaint neighbourhood lined with bungalows, thin trees and bushes. Many of the houses had vines growing along the windows and up the chimneys, flower beds atop porches like crown jewels, and a lit lamppost on the lawn lighting the way underneath our twilight sky. I made a turn left down Sixteen but half a block later I discovered it was actually Fallsdale.
       Occasionally a white mini-van would drive past me as I walked. The license plates were different on each one but the cars were identical. In the windows of one of the houses was a yellow banner reading:

                      THERE ARE NO WRONG TURNS, ONLY WRONG DIRECTIONS

       It made me feel uncomfortable for some reason. There was chirping coming from the sewer grates and streams of water along the branches of the thin trees. I quickened my pace and abruptly tripped over a bump in the sidewalk. On the ground was a penny, a dime and a nickel. As I was about to pick up the coins I remembered I didn't need bus fare: no bus runs on this street.
       I brushed myself off and slicked my hair with a pocket comb I keep in my jacket pocket. My appearance was important because I believed I was about to pass by '259 Fallsdale', where a pretty red-haired girl from my daydreams lives. I slowed my step as I came to the address, hoping covertly to sneak a peek in the window to see if she was there. The television was on full blast, bombarding the living room with flashing colours and static sounds of products. She was sitting there watching, her eyes hypnotized by the screen, her hair fading to white from red. I turned away and took a deep breath of fresh air, happy to be outside.
      A man jogging with a dog tapped my shoulder as he ran past me. The dog began barking and the sound faded as they disappeared into the distance down the street. Another white mini-van drove by and I heard the sound of barking approaching me. A man jogging with this dog tapped my shoulder as he ran past me. I heard the sound of barking fade as they went and then came the sputter of an engine igniting across the street. A white van drove past me and I crossed the street towards a silver car, where I thought the sound had come from. I knew this silver car and I knew these houses around it, but it was all unfamiliar to me.
      Along the sidewalk scurried a brown squirrel, rummaging the grass of the well kept lawns for anything of interest. It was pleasant but distracting, for my immediate task was finding a way out of here.
     
     


Wednesday 28 November 2012

550 Words A Day Challenge (I) Beer Voyages



(I've decided as a writing exercise to write 550 words everyday for two weeks and see what I come up with. The subject matter and narrative will not be limited to anything, and I will only be allowed to edit what I write once)


Part I ---Beer Voyages


          I admit that, and to many of you that know me this comes as no surprise, I am a bit of a beer snob. My philosophy when it comes to beer is: life is simply too short to suffer through something that tastes like somebody urinated it into a bottle.
          Now, I do not subscribe to what I would like to call "Beer Classism", wherein beer is judged by price alone. Perhaps by law of averages, cheaper beers lack a quality that more expensive beers possess, but I can name countless exceptions to this theory ('Gosser' immediately comes to mind.)
         Back to my snobbery. When I first began drinking beer I gave it little thought and didn't discriminate much. All I learned was that you could get a 24 for under 30 bucks and that Laker was disgusting, unfortunately in that order. Moosehead and Keiths were luxuries to young, underage me, Heineken was what kings drank, and the two types of beer I knew were yellow and yellower.
         Then, something changed. I'm not exactly sure when or how or why: it could've been I tried an amazing beer and realized there was more out there, it could've been one too many Labatt Honeys one night, or it could've been Divine Hop-tervention. Whatever it was, I marched right to the bridge of the starship Enterprise to seek out new life and new civilizations.
         As I boldly went where many have gone before, I discovered some things. One, how certain beers taste better/worse on tap in different places. Creemore is an example of this, as I disliked it for years and years thinking it was supposed to taste skunky and flat. Second, the worse a beer tasted to me, the worse the hangover. Take this at what you will, since there is a big difference between drinking two Canadians and seven Tankhouses, but beers that agreed with me initially also seem to agree with me the next day. Third, there doesn't seem to be such a thing as a bad German beer. I'm sure there is, but I've never come across one. Fourth, not to judge a book by its cover (or a beer by its label.)
         I suppose what I'm attempting to say is trying different things gave me a new perspective on beer and how it could taste. It's not that now I dislike Keiths or Moosehead more than I did before, it's that I've found other beers that I personally enjoy more. If you're someone who's perfectly fine drinking Canadian or Labatt or (shudder) Laker, hey knock yourself out. I won't judge you for it. (I will however, judge the beer by thinking how glad I am by not drinking it.)
        So keep an open mind to try something new once in a while, and maybe you'll find it vile or maybe you'll find it delicious.

         BONUS!!!! Liam's Rules of Beer And Beer Drinking

          1.   Never look a gift beer in the mouth. Never.
          2.   Not all American beer is crap. Odds are if you've heard of it before though, it is.
          3.   Good wheat beers are delicious in any season.
          4.   Hoppy beers are dangerous, regardless of percentage.
          5.   There are no bad beers, only bad... erm... yeah there are bad beers.


Monday 19 November 2012

An Uninformed Look at The Blue Jays-Marlins SuperMega Deal




THE TRADE


    Some quick, very initial impressions I got from this trade and the players involved. (Complete with varying levels of astuteness on my part)

    First and foremost, this deal declares is that the Blue Jays want to compete now. They believe these acquisitions, along with full healthy seasons from their key players (Bautista, Morrow, Lawrie, Romero?) will be enough to contend for a playoff spot. It's far from an absurd thought, afterall, what with the dramatic improvement of other AL teams last season and the addition of the second wildcard spot. Let's look closer at what the Blue Jays are actually getting.

    SP Josh Johnson

    Two concerns immediately come to mind with Johnson: can he stay on the mound, and will he want to re-sign with Toronto? At a distant glance, his health concerns appear real but perhaps exaggerated. He has been able to throw 180 innings three of the past four seasons, stopped only in 2011 by shoulder inflammation that ended that season prematurely. This injury also explains his elevated 3.81 ERA in 2012, as he struggled early in the year (A 4.83 ERA on May30th) but regained his form once the rust wore off. The 're-signing with Toronto' part is what I find much more pressing, for if he's here for only one season the trade does not look nearly as incredible for Toronto. In the meanwhile, the Blue Jays have acquired an absolutely superb young pitcher that any other team in baseball would gladly have.

    SS Jose Reyes

    I will admit to knowing very little about Jose Reyes outside of what the numbers tell me. He can steal bases? That's good. He's a .291 career hitter who can take a walk? That's good. He has at least an average defensive reputation? That's okay. He's a 29 year old shortstop who can do all these things? That's very good. Reyes, like Johnson, has those questions revolving around him about whether he can stay healthy, as he is moving onto a turf surface and tends to miss about 30 games a season anyway. This makes the Maicer Izturis signing look very clever now. If Reyes needs to miss a few games or weeks because of his wonky legs, the team has a very capable insurance plan in Izturis. That's an improvement from last season automatically.

    SP Mark Buehrle

    Looking over Mark Buehrle's career, I'm astonished how every season looks exactly the same. 13-16 wins, ERA around 3.50, 200 innings without fail. (Did you know that, excluding his rookie year, Buehrle has NEVER pitched a season with fewer than 200 innings?) People worry his low strikeout rate as he ages is provoking inevitable disaster, but I disagree:

    Buehrle 2001: 5.1 k/9
    Buehrle 2012: 5.6 k/9

    They don't get much more consistent than that. Also considering the enormous contracts free agent pitchers Greinke, Sanchez, Haren and Jackson are likely to receive, the Blue Jays have in essence 'signed' a pitcher of similar effectiveness to a similar (perhaps lower) annual price, but to a contract half as long. Also, pitchers of Buehrle's calibre defensively are seriously fun to watch.

    UT Emilio Bonifacio

    The forgotten man of this deal, (or at least, I've forgotten he's been a part of it several times) Bonifacio is a genuinely useful major league player. If he can't hit much (which is a strong possibility) he can still play almost any position for you on a ball diamond and swipe some bags for you while he does it. Sort of like if two Mike McCoys combined their hitting abilities into one man.   
   
    C John Buck

    It'll be curious to see how long he sticks with the team, if he does at all. Worth noting I think is how since leaving town Buck has descended into awfulness with the bat, despite a much better walk rate with the Marlins than he showed here. Make what you will with that tidbit.

    Let's be honest, the Blue Jays are getting a lot (a lot!) of talent in this trade, but are giving up a fair share of it also. Yunel Escobar, for all his shortcomings, is a superior defensive shortstop who with a good year with the bat, is one of the positions most valuable players. Adieny Hechavarria was born with a glove in his hand, and while hitting is his biggest uncertainty he has made strides in that direction and is young enough to stride further. Henderson Alvarez is 22 with a fastball that has absolutely evil movement. Justin Nicolino is the best 'pitcher' right now of the big Lansing Three. Jake Marisnick is a young, athletic outfielder, and Jeff Mathis is definitely a good go-to arm in blowouts.

    A lot of good young talent left the organization to make this trade happen, many of them prospects we all dream of Cy Youngs, Silver Sluggers and Gold Gloves being attached to their names some day. Yet it speaks to the strength of the minor league system built up over the past few years under Anthopolous that this much potential can depart but many exciting players still remain. We won't know if the deal was truly a good one for the talent level of the organization until the careers of Escobar, Hechavarria, Nicolino, Alvarez and Marisnick are clearer many years from now.

    Anyhow, does this make the Blue Jays a better team today? Uh, yeah. Most importantly, it brings some interest and excitement back to the team after a dreadful 2012 where anything seemed to go wrong. For that alone, it is an marvellous trade for Toronto.

    As for the Marlins? Well... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LHs9Rf7L8_U

(photo courtesy of metronews.ca)

Saturday 6 October 2012

Steckland Russ -- (Chapter II.v)

   
    (ix) --



      Quando leggemo il disiato riso
      esser baciato da cotanto amante,
    questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,
    la bocca mi bacio tutto tremante.
    Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse:
    Quel giorno piu non vi leggemmo avante
       

   
    'Do you mind if we share books? I forgot mine.'

    This was the intrigue: the instigation of my present situation. Since our first encounter in World History, Soraunen and I had not said a word to each other. So the surprise was mine when she asked for my torn, beaten second-hand copy of The Diviners. For a time we read together quietly, listening to the other students read passages aloud.

    'Soraunen, read the next passage please.' droned Mr. Calsuco, without even a book in front of him.

    She read the first sentence, and I discovered she was not speaking these words but carressing them. Her voice nurtured the language like a parent gently pushing it out into the world. I closed my eyes and there I was in rural Manitoba, revelling in a place I had no concept of while a sweet narration gave it all substance. Once she finished it took me several seconds to bring myself back. I didn't know anything could have such an effect on me, and it was obvious.

    'Steckland! Please read the next passage.' said Calsuco, likely repeating himself.

    I've never been superbly confident in my reading aloud abilities, but I was inspired to do my best by the elegance before me. There was the occasional description or word of dialogue I stumbled over, and I felt like the class was burning holes through me with their laser eyes. Still, my voice was clear and not once did I mispronounce anything. I know Soraunen glanced at me when I was done but I did not dare look back.
    The lesson went on uneventfully and at the end I thanked Calsuco for the escape route he had suggested some days before. He commented that often after teaching his Grade Nine class he would sneak to the top of that stairwell and read "The Waste Land" to restore his faith in the English language. I bid him a good weekend and set off down the hallway until someone cut in front of me.

    'You've a nice voice. Like, a British scholar or something.'
    'Oh uh, thanks! You were amazing, really amazing. I was totally mesmerized. You were great.'
   
    I realized I had come on too strong so I looked down at my shoes. Soraunen smiled, slightly embarrassed at the praise so lavished upon her. A bright light above the fire escape gave her black hair an irresistible shimmer.

    'So I'm guessing you like The Diviners a lot, eh?'
    'Yeah, sure. It's all right, I guess.' I answered.
    'Same. Don't you find there're a lot of sex scenes though?'

    My entire body became so warm that I figured somebody must've switched on a lamp inside me. I looked at my shoes again to hide my surely red face.

    'Sure, I, suppose so. I mean, I haven't noticed but, I bet that's the case, yeah certainly.'
    'Yeah.' nodded Soraunen. 'So what're you up to now? Just heading home?'
    'Yeah, looks that way.' I shrugged.
    'Well, do you want to hang out for a bit? I mean, if you want.'
    'Nah, my dad gets kinda annoyed if I'm not home in time for the news.'
    'Oh.'

    Everything happened so fast that it was only by the time I reached the stairwell I thought I might've made a mistake. By the time I was out the side exit I was certain of it. My father is not one to care if I were home by six or midnight: I had made up an excuse for no reason.

    'Do you dare eat a peach?'

    It was a man, balding, leaning his back against the yellow windowpanes of Highview. I turned to him, the escaping wind blowing into my hair.

    'Excuse me? Do I know you?' I asked.
    'Al. Or Alfie.' said he, shaking my hand.

    He was a young man in build and fashion, but visibly he had aged beyond that. His clothing was meticulous, most notably a pair of white flannel trousers which he rolled up even on this chilly October day.

    'Who are you?'
    'I am not Prince Hamlet, not that we were meant to be.'
    'I... don't follow you.' said I.
    'Oh but you do, so how shall we presume? I know these mornings, afternoons and evenings, know them all. I have seen them come and and I have seen them go, talking of Michelangelo. You do know, so we can go and make our visit without asking what is it?'

    This stranger understood me more than I cared to accept, but I did not care for a tedious argument.

    'Fine.' I admitted. 'So what could I have done?'
    That is the question on your plate. For after a hundred visions and revisions, after this time for you and time for me, there is still time yet for a hundred indecisions that rub their backs against the windowpanes.'
    'But that is not what I meant! Not it at all!' I protested.
    'It is impossible to just say what we mean. No, that is not it at all.'

    'In short, I was afraid.'

    I wandered home through some half-deserted streets, on my way noticing only the occasional restaurant and the smell of sawdust. A yellow fog grew thicker as my steps became shorter, until the evening spread out against the sky.


   
   
    (ix) --        The Girl and The Love Song

   

Sunday 26 August 2012

Steckland Russ (II.iv)





    (viii) --



    A quick conversation I had Thursday after Reading Period, after finding a baseball glove outside the gym:

    'Hey man, is this your glove?'
    'Yes.'
    'Yeah here you go. Found it beside that locker there.'
    'Thank you. Do you have a baseball glove?'
    'Well, yeah. It's in my locker.'
    'How about we go play now? Catch?'

    I had not expected shy young Hoosyan to be so forthcoming, but of course I said yes. My last period of the day was World History, and as I knew Caruthers had been sick all week I figured it would be another substitute teacher. This increased the skipability of the class onto a level I could not refuse, especially when a game of toss was being proposed.
    So I went to my locker, grabbed my reliable brown-black and snuck out the side exit with Hoosyan. We found a park on elegantly narrow Mutual Street, rented the grass of the schoolyard and stretched it out. The soil was dusty and dry and a bad throw was sure to make the ball filthy, but there was plenty of space.

    'How hard do you throw?' I called to him.
    'Finesse.' answered Hoosyan.

    His first throw nearly sizzled through the seams of my glove. The release of his throw was deceptive and it took a while to time it properly. My velocity is unimpressive, so once my arm was loose enough I tried to look impressive by throwing my slider exclusively. Hoosyan picked up on this and tried to throw one himself, but bounced it ten feet in front of me.

    'Work in progress.' smiled he, shaking his head.

    The next thing he threw me was a knuckleball with such little spin I thought it was a hologram. I countered with my curveball, loopy but with good late break. Hoosyan then threw something like a splitter, though it was practically a changeup with it's lack of drop. I threw my changeup, probably my best pitch, and Hoosyan answered back with his fastball (or "sizzleball" as I now call it). This repeated for maybe twenty minutes until I threw an eephus pitch and we burst out laughing.
    We were sipping ginger ales on a bench behind the backstop when I discovered something was missing from my pocket. I jumped up and made a quick scan of the grass, but could not find any shiny metal. A melting sense of dread overcame me, as I knew this day of toss had come to an end.

    'Sorry man, I just found out I left my keys in my locker.' I told Hooysan. 'I gotta head back to Highview before they lock the doors.'

    Hooysan nodded emotionlessly and picked up his baseball.

    'How do you grip changeup? Show me, before you go.'

    I took the ball, placed my three largest fingers across the horizontal seams and showed it to him. Hoosyan was first quiet and puzzled, but nodded and smiled when I waved him a goodbye.
    The march up Mutual and then Maitland Street was one of advancing urgency. I have no watch or cell phone, so the time was perfectly unknown. Understand, once classes are dismissed at Highview many of the doors in the school are locked quickly and access to my third floor locker becomes impossible. Yet, if the last class was still going my presence in the corridors surely must enjoy an alibi. Mrs. Hawker, totalitarian disciplinarian vice-principal, has a certain nose for smelling out class skippers behind walls and below floors, like her pet bloodhound she resembles. With her and Principal Boller surely webbing the floors to snag flies like me, I knew I had to be clever.
    I entered through the new building and crept into the cafeteria. There were caretakers lingering about, so I slipped into a seldom used staircase on the north side of the building. This led me towards the second floor computer labs: a shiny narrow hallway filled with only red and blue painted lockers and the echoes of keyboard typing marinating within the walls. I went up another staircase, past a Grade Nine practising the clarinet, and came up to the third floor to see Mrs. Seddington coming towards me. I ducked, not fearing reprimand but fearing her notice of me would result in a flighty five minute talk of how much I'm enjoying her course this year. There was also an assignment I still had not handed in, so minimizing my awkwardness by avoiding her seemed best. Fortunately she made a turn for the Girl's Gym, and I was now just a short walk across the bridge to my locker.
    Highview Collegiate, if your incredible successes have clouded your rich memory, Future Steckland, is made up of two buildings. One is the Old, where my locker is, and the other is the New, with the cafeteria, music rooms, shinier floors and our seldom used swimming pool. Both buildings are connected by a tunnel walkway on the third floor, wherin through the windows you can see the modest traffic of Wellesley Street and the trees across the street go with the breeze. There was no time for sights this day, however, and as I rushed through the bridge blindly I ran straight into somebody turning the corner.

    'Sorry!' I said quickly, picking up a fallen textbook for him.
    'Fine. It's fine..' sighed he.

    The tubes connecting my stomach to the rest of my body wrapped themselves in knots once I realized him: Mr. Calsuco, my English teacher. He did not seem sympathetic.

    'Where are you in such a hurry to?' he asked.
    'I, uh, just needed to get to my locker.'
    'Huh. Strange time to have to do that.'
   
    He has this subtle habit of adjusting his square-rim glasses in class when wanting to know something from somebody. Calsuco was doing this here, and although the speckles of grey against his black hairline suggested relative youth, his eyes were well sharpened spears trained to dig out what he wanted of me.

    'Relax, junior.' said he, removing his spectacles. 'Say, you're in one of my classes. You sit in front of that kid who never shuts up?'
    'Anderson?' I suggested.
    'Anderson! Yes! Smart kid, tries too hard to show it. Real pain.'
    'I, kinda assumed every teacher loved him.'
    'Sure. But if I wanted people to regurgitate facts for me, I'd teach a class of dictionaries.' said Calsuco. 'Yes. Think about it, junior.'

    I didn't, but said I would and thanked him anyway. He suggested my best exit out of the school was the stairway leading into the north parking lot and was gone. I opened my locker and saw my keys plainly atop my Math textbook. The confidence I might actually make it out of this one ballooned inside me.

    'Mrs. Hawker, please come to the third floor, Room 313. Mrs. Hawker to Room 313.'

    I imagine when writing an account of one's life and experiences, the desire to embellish the adventure is a strong one. As I am writing these tidbit tales about myself as they happen, I again cannot guarantee flawless accuracy. This occasion however, you must trust me when I say this is what actually happened. The intercom voice was summoned right on cue, and Hawker was on her way to a classroom seven feet away from me.
    Trying to escape down a stairway was too risky. She could be coming up any one of them and I didn't much feel like asking luck for a favour. I had to hide, so I did the unfathomable and slid into the girl's bathroom just as the double doors of the north stairwell opened. The bathroom door had an awkward window that was perfect for peeking. I kept my sight down and saw Mrs. Hawker come into view: stalking along the floor like a predator, sniffing the walls for any scent of todays prey. I watched her walk right past Room 313 without even a glance, and I knew she was up here for me. 
    Hawker slowed her search in front of the bathroom door. I watched her lift her nose to the air, trying to catch my scent in the hallway breeze. Surely at this point I was licked: there was no escape out of this messy lavatory except through the fangs of my vice-principal. I was deciding whether giving myself up was better when the ringing of a bell introduced itself. The last class of the day had just been dismissed: dozens of students would be pouring out of classrooms and trickling to their lockers. Through the window I saw Hawker, obscured now by passing waves of people, so I opened the door slightly and slipped out just as our linebacker Doc Trambo walked by. In the corner of my eye I saw her look in my direction, but I kept calm. I turned down the stairwell leading to the North parking lot, just as Mr. Calsuco had suggested, and into the safety of a getaway bicycle.



        (viii) -- The Glove and The Escape
   
   
   



   

Friday 13 July 2012

Steckland Russ (II.iii) -- The Ride and The Slick




    (vii) --



    The bicycle Thirteen Division gave me is certainly the worst bike I've ever rode. The seat is stiff and makes my butt sorer than an insert-prison-joke-here line. The wheels wobble and the steering stalls on left turns. The acceleration lags and costs me at least three red lights on any journey. All it has going are its exceptional brakes (which have already saved my backside twice) and the fact it was an unexpected gift of charity from a cast of people I assumed forgot me after paperwork. As such, I shall begin my tale of the first great adventure of my new bicycle, which I have since dubbed "The Golden Hornet."
    I was leaving my last class yesterday, which as a Thursday was World History. The Golden Hornet was locked next to the side exit of the school, and as I approached a voice called out to me from across the street:

    'Yo Steck! Where you ride to?'

    It was Mal Larson, atop a rather decent looking black road bike. I shrugged timidly and went about my business of unlocking my back wheel from the frame. Mal zipped across the street and pulled up alongside me with a rubbery screech.

    'You headin' north?' he asked me.
   
    I shrugged again. I feel weird not shrugging at unexpected questions.
   
    'Yeah. I head north.'
    'Wanna ride together? I know a nice spot up, I'm sure it's not far outta your way. Let's go.'

    Every instinct in my flesh wanted to refuse his offer, and I don't know why. There was no logical reason to reject him, for I had no plans or no stern before-supper curfew imposed by my father. Yet my first thought was to humbly refuse him, and if I hadn't taken that extra second of consideration I dare say I would've done so and the adventure would never have happened.
    So I agreed and he led the way. We went up along Jarvis until Bloor, east on Bloor and across the viaduct until Broadview, followed Broadview into O' Connor Drive and then its transformation into Millwood Road. At this point I was remarkably confused, for I had no idea where I was and the twists and turns had dissolved my sense of direction.
    It was when we crossed the Leaside bridge that the city transformed from the one I knew into one I was aware of only by its ink on a map. Now we had passed this threshold and I admit to being rather scared. The winding Millwood Road wound so only to make me lost. The dead looking trees behind the chain fences of the ravine glowered in the breeze to choke me with their branches. The people on the street just stared hollowly at me as I passed them by, like the obscene stranger I was. We went under a bridge and three passing cars nearly swiped me with their rear-view mirrors, as if there were black and white posters of my face posted all over telephone poles.
    I am relieved to have survived this barren spot, and after a confusing trip north on hilly Bayview Avenue, we reached the temporary end of Lawrence East. The wind of the cars zooming past bothered our faces so we dismounted from our bikes and walked up to a big stone gateway. A small, lime damaged metal plaque fixed upon the stone wall read:

    Glendon Hall

    'What is this place?' I asked.
    'It's a college.' answered Mal.
    'Are we allowed to go in?'

    Mal had already started into the grounds before I could finish my question, so I followed him in. My senses, still affected from the ride, became completely overpowered by the atmosphere of this place. An old fulfilled man here could still be lifted by the nooks of joy scattered about, while an uninspired kid could find something to believe. The noisy speed traffic of Bayview stays behind the walls of this kingdom, for I could hear the slow breaths of Mal Larson as we walked deeper. These bright green trees bid me hello in the wind, and the pink and yellow flowers in front of every squat stone building danced by the whim of the same breeze. Students of the campus passed by us, their minds too immersed in study to afford us any acknowledgement. Some small groups we encountered were even speaking French. We came upon several different pathways and I wished there was time to take them all. The light from the sky shone colourfully upon a still pool of water and I wanted the sun never to go down. Still as I write this now I am boggled that such an Elysium could exist within this bustling ever-growing city, and how I never knew about it.
    Mal and I found a bench with an excellent view of a tree filled valley. He took the chance to ignite a cigarette while I just watched the distance.

    'Whaddya think, Steck?' Mal asked, exhaling smoke.
    'Can we come back here tomorrow?' I replied with a smile.

    ***

    On Friday I had the fortune of meeting the forever infamous, never suspicious, Marcos Slickon, or "Mark Slick" as he's often called. He is a character previously mentioned in every social circle window I've ever peered through but had never encountered in the flesh or the word. As it happened we were both in class, vaguely listening to one of Calsuco's lectures when Marcos dropped his pen. By whim of the universe, the pen rolled to me and I grabbed it up. It was a particularly sleek pen, and by the sleepy slouching of his shoulders I could tell Marcos had not noticed it was gone. I decided to give it back after class, and despite his haste to pack away his books and papers in some hurry I caught him at the doorway before the hallway hustle.

    'Hey, think this is yours'
   
    At first he looked at me as though I were a mosquito daring to disturb him. It was certainly intimidating, as Marcos fits into a bruiser image seamlessly: broad shoulders, a thin gold chain around his neck, short sharp hair, and piercing blue eyes to look an enemy or friend directly in the heart. Once he noticed his pen, outstretched in my hand, his attitude adjusted instantly.

    'Yo thanks! I was wondering where that went.'

    By his over-confidence I could tell he never knew it was missing.
   
    'So I guess you find Calsuco pretty boring, huh?' I asked casually.
    'Ugh, man! He just goes on and on, here's what I know and listen to me because I know, right? I mean he's a big buyer and all, if you catch me, but man I just don't get what he's sayin' most of the time...'
    'Yeah, yeah. I don't get him either.' said I simply.
    'For sure, for sure. He's always like: "Oooooo-kay, guys. I'm just going to taaaalk about sommmething raaaaaandom for, twenty minutes nowwwwww.'

    His impression was flawless. I chuckled easily.
   
    'Yo, you don't know the tall girl with the torpedos stickin' out all nice...?'
    'Lindsay Chambly?'
    'Damn boy, yeah! Mmmmm! Tell ya what I'd do with those but, huh, there's my girlfriend comin' down the hall. Hey, you ever need a little something something, whatever it is, you come find me hey hey? Thanks for finding my pen!'

    He jogged down the hall into the welcome of a dark haired, stern looking girl who crossed her arms as soon as he was within range. I observed this encounter between them without seeming obvious, and I pondered if this dynamic was normal in all relationships. Is there natural happiness in such complacency and obligation, or does it have to be battled for? Suddenly I felt relieved at being unaccounted for, as it seemed safer, easier. For a long time I'm sure though, I'll remember the way Mark Slick's eyes went all wide, like a toddler released into a playground, by the mention of Lindsay Chambly.
   
   

    (vii) -- The Ride and The Slick