I'm up at six. Showered, dressed, and ready for the day by seven-thirty. In this house early mornings belong to the silence. Everything is so still, and every piece of furniture waits patiently for the earliest riser. In these fresh hours you move around stealthily, past dark windows, past evidence of last night's after party on the coffee table with the map of the Georgia Strait under the glass, past umbrellas and sombreros strewn about, past dishes stacked in the same basin sink that's likely been there since the house was built in the dirty thirties, and still the waves you make are tangible. I load the Seagull with some fresh film before gathering my things and stepping out the back door into the rain. For a moment at the gate, I take in my sleeping palace where it stands in dim morning light, then close the latch and head out the alley towards the bus stop.
The ninety-nine takes you right downtown with fewer stops. I've planned this trip online, coordinated the right times, double checked and triple checked. Sitting there, though, among all the sharply dressed morning commuters, I feel that familiar sensation of going somewhere I've never been, taking a route I've never taken. It's a panicky feeling; I'm looking at all the street signs along the way, as though the bus might veer off course. Suddenly there's something blocking my view. I can't see what street we're at, and the illuminated sign bolted to the ceiling that spells the name of the next stop in bright yellow dots is not illuminated. This conversation happens with the man next to me:
Me: Excuse me, do you know what street this is?
Man: Where are you going?
This is infuriating, but I must keep calm, this man knows where he is and I don't.
Me: I need to get to the Canada Line, I'm going to the airport. Is this Howe street?
Man: Oh, you're good.
The bus is pulling to a stop just as he is making this useless comment. I'm perched on the edge of my seat and my panic is manifesting itself in my darting eyes and stick straight posture but most of all my overwhelming need to hit this man.
Me: You mean I should stay on? Do you know where to get off for the train?
Man: Yeah, you can catch it later on at (some unrecognizable street name) if you want.
With only seconds to spare I make a final effort.
Me: Is this Howe street?
Man: Yep.
In the space of an instant I am off the bus. As it pulls away I am taking deep breaths, hitting restart, reassuring myself that my plans were well made and thoroughly reviewed, feeling relieved that I'm back on my feet, in control of my direction. Then just as I am reaching something like calm I glance up. This is not Howe street. I close my eyes and curse that man and his family.
For four or five blocks I move forward in an angry hurry, utterly lost, my initial confidence naught but a memory. Then I see it in the distance. I miss the entrance the first time I pass it, no doubt the first person in history to do so. Finally I'm inside, heading down the stairs, all the signs are right and the worst is surely over. The next train to the airport is in eight minutes. I look at the time. Nine-seventeen. I don't remember the time I had planned to be here, but this feels like late. I don't give up. There is a fellow beside me with some luggage. I don't want to dread interaction with strangers; I've always liked that feeling of unfamiliarity, in a way the conversation has a limitless potential, so I try again.
Me: You're going to the airport, yes?
Man with remarkable ability to be clear, concise, and honest when answering questions: Yes I am.
Me: Do you know by any chance, how long the train takes to get there?
Wonderful man: I'm sorry, I don't. I've never taken it this far before.
The word "far" comes through my ears, forms a heavy knot and sinks slowly to the pit of my stomach as the train is pulling up. I get on, wishing I didn't realize that this is my fault.
Wonderful man: There's a map here, let's see. We are here, and I know it takes about ten minutes to get to King Edward...
He is pointing with his left hand at the map, tracing the path of the train with one finger while the rest hang in a loose curve. In a moment of insanity I want nothing more than to be this man, calmly riding a train to the airport (where he will doubtless arrive early and maybe read), helping a stranger who is far less at ease without the slightest hint of patronizing pity or superiority. The hand is moving steadily towards the last stop, which in my mind I rename "Impossibility".
...so from here to the airport is probably...
He considers.
...I would say no less than a half hour.
Sally was very specific.
No more control tower tour. No more dials or switches, no more lights. No more planes overhead, or scratchy radio voices saying things like: All systems are go. Just a few minutes of limbo before I can get off this nowhere train and cross these nowhere tracks to the side that brings me home. It is still raining heavily outside. On the way, Sally phones me. Next time give me a call, Emily. Sure thing. At no point did I have her number.
I'm turning into the alley, approaching point A, never having reached point B. At the gate, there's a light in the window. Melanna is dry in her pajamas and laughing and dancing wildly in our living room. She is bright joy; motion; arms and legs and eyes that don't give up, twirling and singing and illuminating a home under the gray drizzle. When I get inside she's there with her friend Helene but I can think of no words that are better than a hug. She doesn't ask for any explanation, just grins big and says: I'm glad you're back. You look like a drowned rat.
I decide to take my bike into the shop. I need to do something productive before noon or I'll drown in this sense of failure. My bike used to be my dad's, the same one he rode when we used to go for family bike rides along the paths to Confetti's Ice Cream in Calgary before they closed down. A mechanic I know from the bar I worked for all spring and summer painted it red with blue and yellow accents, and my mum brought it over on the plane when she came for Thanksgiving, taken apart and packed in a box. Kevin, drunk and wearing his lab coat, put it together perfectly a few nights ago and even pumped up the tires for me, but he didn't have the right size of wrench to attach the handlebars, so I have no control of the steering and have to guide it several blocks down Broadway to Ace Cycles on it's rear wheel. I am the first customer of the day. No charge, it was no trouble at all. Even in full working condition, I walk it home. The street is busy and wet, I don't yet have a helmet, and to be honest, the whole way home I'm trying unsuccessfully to remember the last time I rode a bicycle. I don't trust that old saying. Still, that shiny new paint, those spinning spokes, the optimism reflecting off that reflector. I get home, run up the steps to throw my bag on the couch, and head back out in the rain.
I hope it always feels like this. In the alley, cruising over fallen yellow leaves, cutting through every puddle like it's a little red sea, laughing nervously at every wobble and triumphantly when my turning gets quicker and tighter. The best part, the easy part; the long stretch between turns. I get a little braver each time, go a little faster. Speed feels like winning at something. I hope I never stop loving the wind in my face, further evidence of this motion I'm propelling, or the cool mechanical roll, on rubber you can feel tracing it's pattern on the cement. I hope no amount of water rushing from the skies can ever wash away this most basic happiness. I am soaked through to the bone, and this is a great bicycle.
Back inside I'm on the phone with Vanessa, a good friend back in Calgary who lives and breathes soccer and has graciously volunteered her time to the university team. They're in town today to take on UBC and she has some time before the game tonight.
Me: What's the rest of the team doing?
Vanessa: Homework.
Me: Lame.
Vanessa: I know.
It sounds like she's eating something... probably soccer.
Me: Good thing you have a cool Vancouver friend. You're so popular.
Vanessa: I'm kinda worried about hurting their feelings.
By the time I get to her hotel downtown, we have about an hour and a half to spare before she has to be at a team meeting. We wander down Granville Street trying to cram all our stories into this time slot and looking for a place to eat. We end up at Cafe Crepe. She tells me about soccer and school and I tell her mostly about my roommates. While we're eating, one of her teammates calls. When she gets off the phone, I have a mouthful of bananas and strawberries and nutella and she has to go; the meeting is at two-thirty, not three. Her coach is wondering where she is. She throws down some cash and leaves very apologetically. We have said good things, but not enough. The rain has finally stopped when I get outside, so I walk through the streets of downtown and over Granville Bridge, stopping in the middle to look out at the boats and the mountains and over to the left the busy markets. When it picks up again, I catch a bus home.
Aussie Pat's on his way over to go to Vanessa's game with me. I met Pat last summer at Molly Malone's in Calgary. I was out with my cousin and he was passing through town with two friends from New Zealand, and the five of us shut the place down. We ended up running into them again the next weekend when we went to Banff on a whim, all three of them wearing those shirts you buy at gift shops with bears on them. It turned out that Pat had recently moved to Vancouver so we kept in touch. Aussie Pat is my first Australian friend, and that seems to me to be a milestone, which is why I usually introduce him as Aussie Pat, rather than just Pat. He doesn't seem to mind. He has brought his Canada umbrella, big and red and white and glorious. It will be dark out soon, so I switch the Seagull for the Nikon and we head out.
It rains heavily for the duration of the game, and we sit on the sidelines watching as dusk comes and goes. The sky is something tremendous that makes the well-lit field look eerie. I watch my friend in the number four jersey running back and forth, shouting things I don't understand. I see, or I believe I see, moving subtly across her face, every minor frustration: at being assigned to a defensive position, at calls made by the refs and coaches, at her inability to communicate with this team the way she does with Callies Major. In a very selfish way I am relieved to feel as though I still know her that well. Calgary loses, harshly, but Vanessa is as ever a goddess of composure. After the game she crosses the field to meet me. I introduce Aussie Pat, and we talk for a while. She is soaked through with rain and sweat and effort, and I miss her. It is a surreal thing to be standing in the middle of a dark and drenched field with this friend from what feels like ages ago. We can see each other so clearly, just like we always did, but there is a barely detectable thread tied to each of us. Mine is rooted where I stand, and hers is pulling her home. She has to leave.
Me: Come back for a real visit.
Vanessa: I want to. I will.
Back at home I change into dry clothes and make Pat and myself some pasta. We sit around with Melanna and talk about tonight. Pat's friend's band is playing at the Rickshaw.
Pat: Basically it's four bands covering each others songs, and playing a few of their own. They're not all great bands, but my friend's is pretty good.
Melanna has a strong craving for pie, so Pat walks with us down to Aphrodite's on 4th Ave, then goes on his way. It is a good thing to have a neighbourhood pie place. Nothing is better for a tired and rainy day. We're in woolly sweaters and sweatpants. Pie asks nothing more from us. Our server is Ian. He makes helpful suggestions and talks about the weather without being boring. A very pleasant fellow.
When we get back, I'm getting ready to go out again when Parisa comes home from her most recent adventure. She seems dissatisfied at present. I ask her if she'd like to join me and am surprised when she agrees. I shouldn't be, I remember what it's like to want distraction.
We walk down to 4th to catch the bus, and at the stop after ours, Ian gets on. From the back of the bus I make eye contact with him, point, and say to Parisa: That man served us pie. Now that I've done this very odd thing, he is forced to sit and talk with us. It goes surprisingly well.
It takes a while, but we find the Rickshaw, which looks exactly like an abandoned theatre, and might be. Pat sits near the sound booth waiting for us and we cross the floor to a makeshift bar and order drinks. We missed the first two bands, but Pat's friend is in The Good News, who are on last. Throughout the third band's set I still feel out of place, like we haven't quite arrived somehow. Parisa too is quiet, although it's hard to talk over the sound blaring from the speakers. In the break between bands I try taking pictures, but it doesn't feel right.
All this melts away when The Good News take the stage. Every member is immediately charismatic, the songs are good and get better when they start playing originals. Soon I stop caring about all the important and trivial things that usually swim around in my brain. For an hour or so I'm no longer interested in anything about my day. They have my undivided attention. The last song is Stomp. It starts with a short verse sung a capella, and then a riff comes in, one of those quickening, stirring riffs that makes you smile and tap your foot without realizing it. The guitarists are spraying beer on each other and laughing. The keyboardist is trying to convince the bassist to sing along for the chorus, which he finally does with an endearing nervousness. The lead singer dances in a way that is best described as catchy. Everywhere I look I'm entertained, and as the song builds up, so does the show. A guitarist from the previous band is on the stage in his underwear and suspenders, stepping over the drums and singing along. The drummer is kind of hopping around in his seat. The bassist has come out of his shell and is singing with abandon. Band members are hugging each other, the lead singer is lying down on the stage and turning in circles, getting tangled in the feet of the guitarists, who are soaked in beer by this point. For the finale someone invites the crowd on stage and now it is pandemonium. Everyone is singing and dancing, plucking at guitars and twirling around the keyboardist. There are five guys on the drums. It sounds amazing. I suddenly realize I'm laughing out loud. Everything is absurd. My Saturday flies by in my head, and quite suddenly, it makes perfect sense. I love this moment. I love this song. I love this band. I love this city.
I Love This Song.
The ninety-nine takes you right downtown with fewer stops. I've planned this trip online, coordinated the right times, double checked and triple checked. Sitting there, though, among all the sharply dressed morning commuters, I feel that familiar sensation of going somewhere I've never been, taking a route I've never taken. It's a panicky feeling; I'm looking at all the street signs along the way, as though the bus might veer off course. Suddenly there's something blocking my view. I can't see what street we're at, and the illuminated sign bolted to the ceiling that spells the name of the next stop in bright yellow dots is not illuminated. This conversation happens with the man next to me:
Me: Excuse me, do you know what street this is?
Man: Where are you going?
This is infuriating, but I must keep calm, this man knows where he is and I don't.
Me: I need to get to the Canada Line, I'm going to the airport. Is this Howe street?
Man: Oh, you're good.
The bus is pulling to a stop just as he is making this useless comment. I'm perched on the edge of my seat and my panic is manifesting itself in my darting eyes and stick straight posture but most of all my overwhelming need to hit this man.
Me: You mean I should stay on? Do you know where to get off for the train?
Man: Yeah, you can catch it later on at (some unrecognizable street name) if you want.
With only seconds to spare I make a final effort.
Me: Is this Howe street?
Man: Yep.
In the space of an instant I am off the bus. As it pulls away I am taking deep breaths, hitting restart, reassuring myself that my plans were well made and thoroughly reviewed, feeling relieved that I'm back on my feet, in control of my direction. Then just as I am reaching something like calm I glance up. This is not Howe street. I close my eyes and curse that man and his family.
For four or five blocks I move forward in an angry hurry, utterly lost, my initial confidence naught but a memory. Then I see it in the distance. I miss the entrance the first time I pass it, no doubt the first person in history to do so. Finally I'm inside, heading down the stairs, all the signs are right and the worst is surely over. The next train to the airport is in eight minutes. I look at the time. Nine-seventeen. I don't remember the time I had planned to be here, but this feels like late. I don't give up. There is a fellow beside me with some luggage. I don't want to dread interaction with strangers; I've always liked that feeling of unfamiliarity, in a way the conversation has a limitless potential, so I try again.
Me: You're going to the airport, yes?
Man with remarkable ability to be clear, concise, and honest when answering questions: Yes I am.
Me: Do you know by any chance, how long the train takes to get there?
Wonderful man: I'm sorry, I don't. I've never taken it this far before.
The word "far" comes through my ears, forms a heavy knot and sinks slowly to the pit of my stomach as the train is pulling up. I get on, wishing I didn't realize that this is my fault.
Wonderful man: There's a map here, let's see. We are here, and I know it takes about ten minutes to get to King Edward...
He is pointing with his left hand at the map, tracing the path of the train with one finger while the rest hang in a loose curve. In a moment of insanity I want nothing more than to be this man, calmly riding a train to the airport (where he will doubtless arrive early and maybe read), helping a stranger who is far less at ease without the slightest hint of patronizing pity or superiority. The hand is moving steadily towards the last stop, which in my mind I rename "Impossibility".
...so from here to the airport is probably...
He considers.
...I would say no less than a half hour.
Sally was very specific.
No more control tower tour. No more dials or switches, no more lights. No more planes overhead, or scratchy radio voices saying things like: All systems are go. Just a few minutes of limbo before I can get off this nowhere train and cross these nowhere tracks to the side that brings me home. It is still raining heavily outside. On the way, Sally phones me. Next time give me a call, Emily. Sure thing. At no point did I have her number.
I'm turning into the alley, approaching point A, never having reached point B. At the gate, there's a light in the window. Melanna is dry in her pajamas and laughing and dancing wildly in our living room. She is bright joy; motion; arms and legs and eyes that don't give up, twirling and singing and illuminating a home under the gray drizzle. When I get inside she's there with her friend Helene but I can think of no words that are better than a hug. She doesn't ask for any explanation, just grins big and says: I'm glad you're back. You look like a drowned rat.
I decide to take my bike into the shop. I need to do something productive before noon or I'll drown in this sense of failure. My bike used to be my dad's, the same one he rode when we used to go for family bike rides along the paths to Confetti's Ice Cream in Calgary before they closed down. A mechanic I know from the bar I worked for all spring and summer painted it red with blue and yellow accents, and my mum brought it over on the plane when she came for Thanksgiving, taken apart and packed in a box. Kevin, drunk and wearing his lab coat, put it together perfectly a few nights ago and even pumped up the tires for me, but he didn't have the right size of wrench to attach the handlebars, so I have no control of the steering and have to guide it several blocks down Broadway to Ace Cycles on it's rear wheel. I am the first customer of the day. No charge, it was no trouble at all. Even in full working condition, I walk it home. The street is busy and wet, I don't yet have a helmet, and to be honest, the whole way home I'm trying unsuccessfully to remember the last time I rode a bicycle. I don't trust that old saying. Still, that shiny new paint, those spinning spokes, the optimism reflecting off that reflector. I get home, run up the steps to throw my bag on the couch, and head back out in the rain.
I hope it always feels like this. In the alley, cruising over fallen yellow leaves, cutting through every puddle like it's a little red sea, laughing nervously at every wobble and triumphantly when my turning gets quicker and tighter. The best part, the easy part; the long stretch between turns. I get a little braver each time, go a little faster. Speed feels like winning at something. I hope I never stop loving the wind in my face, further evidence of this motion I'm propelling, or the cool mechanical roll, on rubber you can feel tracing it's pattern on the cement. I hope no amount of water rushing from the skies can ever wash away this most basic happiness. I am soaked through to the bone, and this is a great bicycle.
Back inside I'm on the phone with Vanessa, a good friend back in Calgary who lives and breathes soccer and has graciously volunteered her time to the university team. They're in town today to take on UBC and she has some time before the game tonight.
Me: What's the rest of the team doing?
Vanessa: Homework.
Me: Lame.
Vanessa: I know.
It sounds like she's eating something... probably soccer.
Me: Good thing you have a cool Vancouver friend. You're so popular.
Vanessa: I'm kinda worried about hurting their feelings.
By the time I get to her hotel downtown, we have about an hour and a half to spare before she has to be at a team meeting. We wander down Granville Street trying to cram all our stories into this time slot and looking for a place to eat. We end up at Cafe Crepe. She tells me about soccer and school and I tell her mostly about my roommates. While we're eating, one of her teammates calls. When she gets off the phone, I have a mouthful of bananas and strawberries and nutella and she has to go; the meeting is at two-thirty, not three. Her coach is wondering where she is. She throws down some cash and leaves very apologetically. We have said good things, but not enough. The rain has finally stopped when I get outside, so I walk through the streets of downtown and over Granville Bridge, stopping in the middle to look out at the boats and the mountains and over to the left the busy markets. When it picks up again, I catch a bus home.
Aussie Pat's on his way over to go to Vanessa's game with me. I met Pat last summer at Molly Malone's in Calgary. I was out with my cousin and he was passing through town with two friends from New Zealand, and the five of us shut the place down. We ended up running into them again the next weekend when we went to Banff on a whim, all three of them wearing those shirts you buy at gift shops with bears on them. It turned out that Pat had recently moved to Vancouver so we kept in touch. Aussie Pat is my first Australian friend, and that seems to me to be a milestone, which is why I usually introduce him as Aussie Pat, rather than just Pat. He doesn't seem to mind. He has brought his Canada umbrella, big and red and white and glorious. It will be dark out soon, so I switch the Seagull for the Nikon and we head out.
It rains heavily for the duration of the game, and we sit on the sidelines watching as dusk comes and goes. The sky is something tremendous that makes the well-lit field look eerie. I watch my friend in the number four jersey running back and forth, shouting things I don't understand. I see, or I believe I see, moving subtly across her face, every minor frustration: at being assigned to a defensive position, at calls made by the refs and coaches, at her inability to communicate with this team the way she does with Callies Major. In a very selfish way I am relieved to feel as though I still know her that well. Calgary loses, harshly, but Vanessa is as ever a goddess of composure. After the game she crosses the field to meet me. I introduce Aussie Pat, and we talk for a while. She is soaked through with rain and sweat and effort, and I miss her. It is a surreal thing to be standing in the middle of a dark and drenched field with this friend from what feels like ages ago. We can see each other so clearly, just like we always did, but there is a barely detectable thread tied to each of us. Mine is rooted where I stand, and hers is pulling her home. She has to leave.
Me: Come back for a real visit.
Vanessa: I want to. I will.
Back at home I change into dry clothes and make Pat and myself some pasta. We sit around with Melanna and talk about tonight. Pat's friend's band is playing at the Rickshaw.
Pat: Basically it's four bands covering each others songs, and playing a few of their own. They're not all great bands, but my friend's is pretty good.
Melanna has a strong craving for pie, so Pat walks with us down to Aphrodite's on 4th Ave, then goes on his way. It is a good thing to have a neighbourhood pie place. Nothing is better for a tired and rainy day. We're in woolly sweaters and sweatpants. Pie asks nothing more from us. Our server is Ian. He makes helpful suggestions and talks about the weather without being boring. A very pleasant fellow.
When we get back, I'm getting ready to go out again when Parisa comes home from her most recent adventure. She seems dissatisfied at present. I ask her if she'd like to join me and am surprised when she agrees. I shouldn't be, I remember what it's like to want distraction.
We walk down to 4th to catch the bus, and at the stop after ours, Ian gets on. From the back of the bus I make eye contact with him, point, and say to Parisa: That man served us pie. Now that I've done this very odd thing, he is forced to sit and talk with us. It goes surprisingly well.
It takes a while, but we find the Rickshaw, which looks exactly like an abandoned theatre, and might be. Pat sits near the sound booth waiting for us and we cross the floor to a makeshift bar and order drinks. We missed the first two bands, but Pat's friend is in The Good News, who are on last. Throughout the third band's set I still feel out of place, like we haven't quite arrived somehow. Parisa too is quiet, although it's hard to talk over the sound blaring from the speakers. In the break between bands I try taking pictures, but it doesn't feel right.
All this melts away when The Good News take the stage. Every member is immediately charismatic, the songs are good and get better when they start playing originals. Soon I stop caring about all the important and trivial things that usually swim around in my brain. For an hour or so I'm no longer interested in anything about my day. They have my undivided attention. The last song is Stomp. It starts with a short verse sung a capella, and then a riff comes in, one of those quickening, stirring riffs that makes you smile and tap your foot without realizing it. The guitarists are spraying beer on each other and laughing. The keyboardist is trying to convince the bassist to sing along for the chorus, which he finally does with an endearing nervousness. The lead singer dances in a way that is best described as catchy. Everywhere I look I'm entertained, and as the song builds up, so does the show. A guitarist from the previous band is on the stage in his underwear and suspenders, stepping over the drums and singing along. The drummer is kind of hopping around in his seat. The bassist has come out of his shell and is singing with abandon. Band members are hugging each other, the lead singer is lying down on the stage and turning in circles, getting tangled in the feet of the guitarists, who are soaked in beer by this point. For the finale someone invites the crowd on stage and now it is pandemonium. Everyone is singing and dancing, plucking at guitars and twirling around the keyboardist. There are five guys on the drums. It sounds amazing. I suddenly realize I'm laughing out loud. Everything is absurd. My Saturday flies by in my head, and quite suddenly, it makes perfect sense. I love this moment. I love this song. I love this band. I love this city.
I Love This Song.
No comments:
Post a Comment