Crime of Life
Monday, March 31, 2008
Five Times Kyle
First. Kindergarten. We were the same age and height, which is all that matters when making friends at that age. And height.
Second. Grade three science fair. We were once again partners, as we’d been the year before and the years to come. We always had the best project, and got first place all but once. He came to every one of my birthdays and I went to every one of his. We played football.
Third. Grade seven, the first year in a new school. His shoes got too big for his feet and he couldn’t be bothered to be associated with me. We did not work on a science fair project together.
Fourth. Grade twelve. The whole class was passing around yearbooks to leave each other messages and well-wishing for the future. I got his and wrote something – kind, I’m sure, brief, I hope – and when I got mine back from him, I looked over each page and found nothing. Not even an imperfect scribbled signature over his picture.
Fifth. A few years ago, we found ourselves at the same table in the same bar back home for the holidays. I looked over to him, gave him a quick nod of the head, the way guys say hello without actually saying hello. He looked away.
And now we’re still the same age and height, but only one of has grown up. ¶ 7:26 AM
Second. Grade three science fair. We were once again partners, as we’d been the year before and the years to come. We always had the best project, and got first place all but once. He came to every one of my birthdays and I went to every one of his. We played football.
Third. Grade seven, the first year in a new school. His shoes got too big for his feet and he couldn’t be bothered to be associated with me. We did not work on a science fair project together.
Fourth. Grade twelve. The whole class was passing around yearbooks to leave each other messages and well-wishing for the future. I got his and wrote something – kind, I’m sure, brief, I hope – and when I got mine back from him, I looked over each page and found nothing. Not even an imperfect scribbled signature over his picture.
Fifth. A few years ago, we found ourselves at the same table in the same bar back home for the holidays. I looked over to him, gave him a quick nod of the head, the way guys say hello without actually saying hello. He looked away.
And now we’re still the same age and height, but only one of has grown up. ¶ 7:26 AM
Friday, March 28, 2008
Seven's Steps
I only met Amber once before she shaved her head and became Seven, leaving a pile of short rich-brown, almost red, curls where her old life used to be.
Amber sat in the corner quietly watching me embrace her guitar, serenading a black compressor microphone dangling from the ceiling. My voice, off-key; my strumming, inconsistent; her reaction, pleased. She took the guitar and played a song, something that I’d never heard before, and if I’d never been told it was by Beth Orton, it would have been hers. Amber’s voice was in tune; her strumming was immediate; my reaction was off-key and inconsistent. A flaw in my character, perhaps.
That was the last time I saw Amber, and the last time I saw Seven was likely a year later. She was leaving. To see the world. To escape this mundane life that now I’ve become too accustomed to. At the time, I saw her as a unique and bold spirit. I envied her in so many ways that it ultimately left me embarrassed to be in her company. She didn’t just want to do things, she did them.
By now, I’m sure she’s walked the world. Maybe she’s even come home, but I doubt she stayed for long. And sometimes, even now, I wish that I’d been able to follow her; if not in step then at least in spirit. ¶ 8:07 AM
Amber sat in the corner quietly watching me embrace her guitar, serenading a black compressor microphone dangling from the ceiling. My voice, off-key; my strumming, inconsistent; her reaction, pleased. She took the guitar and played a song, something that I’d never heard before, and if I’d never been told it was by Beth Orton, it would have been hers. Amber’s voice was in tune; her strumming was immediate; my reaction was off-key and inconsistent. A flaw in my character, perhaps.
That was the last time I saw Amber, and the last time I saw Seven was likely a year later. She was leaving. To see the world. To escape this mundane life that now I’ve become too accustomed to. At the time, I saw her as a unique and bold spirit. I envied her in so many ways that it ultimately left me embarrassed to be in her company. She didn’t just want to do things, she did them.
By now, I’m sure she’s walked the world. Maybe she’s even come home, but I doubt she stayed for long. And sometimes, even now, I wish that I’d been able to follow her; if not in step then at least in spirit. ¶ 8:07 AM
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Under A Callous Sun
My plane landed in Palm Springs at around 10 AM on April 26, 2007, and I didn’t have any way to get from there to the campground, so I stuck to my original plan. Wait at the airport until there were some people to share a taxi with, since alone the fare would be over $60. I picked up my hockey bag full of camping gear from the baggage carousel and went outside to find a bench hidden from the overpowering hostile desert sun.
I’d been sitting on that bench for several minutes when I saw a woman walking towards me. She moved slowly in the midday sun, carrying a wooden box that looked like it might have been holding her lunch. Her hair was a mess of white curls, as if she hadn’t washed it in anything but sweat for days, and her clothes were as wrinkled as the bits of exposed skin on her arms. She sat on the bench next to me, mumbling incoherently. I’m not sure if she even knew I was there.
She opened the box. Inside were photographs, some colour, but mostly black and white. She picked up the one on top. A family standing in front of an old house.
“John,” she said, the words falling from her mouth more than being spoken.
She set the photograph down next to her, then took out another. A man standing next to a small boy, probably his son. Then another. A man and a woman. Then another. And another. And another, all the while talking to herself in a desperate, hushed, and trembling voice. A few photographs later revealed a black rosary that she picked up and held in her shaking hands, pressing it to her lips in prayer. Then, one by one, she put everything back in the box, exactly in its order, and before she stood to leave, and before she closed the wooden box, she wiped the tears from her face.
“I wish you were here right now, John.” ¶ 7:33 PM
I’d been sitting on that bench for several minutes when I saw a woman walking towards me. She moved slowly in the midday sun, carrying a wooden box that looked like it might have been holding her lunch. Her hair was a mess of white curls, as if she hadn’t washed it in anything but sweat for days, and her clothes were as wrinkled as the bits of exposed skin on her arms. She sat on the bench next to me, mumbling incoherently. I’m not sure if she even knew I was there.
She opened the box. Inside were photographs, some colour, but mostly black and white. She picked up the one on top. A family standing in front of an old house.
“John,” she said, the words falling from her mouth more than being spoken.
She set the photograph down next to her, then took out another. A man standing next to a small boy, probably his son. Then another. A man and a woman. Then another. And another. And another, all the while talking to herself in a desperate, hushed, and trembling voice. A few photographs later revealed a black rosary that she picked up and held in her shaking hands, pressing it to her lips in prayer. Then, one by one, she put everything back in the box, exactly in its order, and before she stood to leave, and before she closed the wooden box, she wiped the tears from her face.
“I wish you were here right now, John.” ¶ 7:33 PM
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Even In Absence
I was sitting at home one Friday evening around 9 o’clock, chatting online as I have too much tendency to do, when Elizabeth and I struck up our first conversation. We hadn’t been talking for very long when she mentioned that she lived near the Boston Pizza on Whyte Ave. I asked if it was busy there around 9:30 on a Friday night or if it would be easy enough for two people to get a table and some drinks.
“I think it would be,” she said, after a pause.
“I’ll meet you there at 9:30 then?” I asked.
“That sounds good,” she said, no pause.
On the drive there, I called up a friend and asked him to call me shortly after ten in case I needed bailing out of a bad date. When he called, though, I didn’t need the lifesaver; our conversation was as good as you could have expected from two nervous strangers. Afterwards, we went for a walk through the Legislature Grounds, embracing the unusually warm summer air and continuing a pleasant conversation that meandered around doubts and desires and dilemmas.
But pleasant conversation wasn’t enough. The spark between us was just that, a spark. Relationships don’t need sparks, they need enormous bonfires that illuminate faces so well that you can see your love even in absence. ¶ 8:18 AM
“I think it would be,” she said, after a pause.
“I’ll meet you there at 9:30 then?” I asked.
“That sounds good,” she said, no pause.
On the drive there, I called up a friend and asked him to call me shortly after ten in case I needed bailing out of a bad date. When he called, though, I didn’t need the lifesaver; our conversation was as good as you could have expected from two nervous strangers. Afterwards, we went for a walk through the Legislature Grounds, embracing the unusually warm summer air and continuing a pleasant conversation that meandered around doubts and desires and dilemmas.
But pleasant conversation wasn’t enough. The spark between us was just that, a spark. Relationships don’t need sparks, they need enormous bonfires that illuminate faces so well that you can see your love even in absence. ¶ 8:18 AM
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Or...
We'd been chatting the workday away over e-mail and our conversation quickly escalated through wit and innuendo. When the afternoon was over, signaling a merciful end to the week, we weren't quite ready to put our flirting away and met for tea. Before we did, though, she confessed that she was seeing someone and that our flirting had been in the name of harmless fun. As if flirting had ever truly been harmless.
At the bottom of our cups we found the rest of the evening. I offered her a ride home since the weather was starting to turn for the year, and we took our time driving through the city and dark countryside. The flirting was ongoing, although the difference between innocent and scandalous had long since blurred.
This was the only time I ever stole a woman's heart from another man. But it didn't happen that night; that night was just foreplay, just as the next few weeks would be, just as how our whole relationship would be. Two people flirting with romance, in love only with intrigue, holding each other with a passionate embrace that was, at the same time, pushing us apart.
Or maybe that was just me. ¶ 7:41 AM
At the bottom of our cups we found the rest of the evening. I offered her a ride home since the weather was starting to turn for the year, and we took our time driving through the city and dark countryside. The flirting was ongoing, although the difference between innocent and scandalous had long since blurred.
This was the only time I ever stole a woman's heart from another man. But it didn't happen that night; that night was just foreplay, just as the next few weeks would be, just as how our whole relationship would be. Two people flirting with romance, in love only with intrigue, holding each other with a passionate embrace that was, at the same time, pushing us apart.
Or maybe that was just me. ¶ 7:41 AM
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Giving Thanks
I have one of those unfortunate dates of birth that falls near a holiday and I’ve learned over the years that it’s common for friends to skip my birthday-related functions to be with family instead. After high school, most of my friends moved out to the city, so this holiday they would all be back to town for the weekend. To celebrate, I decided to have a party. A big one.
I had one of those big water coolers filled with rum and Coke. I had a couple flats of beer. I had coolers, chips, loud music, and – what I thought was the best part – a solid number of guests coming over. My parents were out of town that weekend and had no idea that I was going to trash their house, but in all fairness, I didn’t know that second part either.
By the end of the night, the party was well out of control. There were friends of friends that had shown up, a lot that I didn’t know very well, and they were, to say the least, taking advantage of my good nature. The flats of beer disappeared, as I expected them to, but there were no empty cans anywhere. The cooler of rum and Coke was ruined with ashes and what I suspected was pubic hair. The bowls of chips were dumped on the floor, drinks were intentionally spilled, the banister going downstairs was ripped off, there was a hole punched through a wall, and there was glass broken on the kitchen floor. Even one of my mother’s antique bowls was placed out on the road filled with some clever joker’s urine.
As soon as I started catching on to what was going on in my house – because I wasn’t being as diligent as I should have been – I kicked everyone out. (It was actually the second time that I kicked them all out because the first time I was talked out of it by one of my friends, who incorrectly advised me that nothing worse was going to happen.)
I scrubbed that floor until the earliest hours of the morning, then took a nap before scrubbing some more. I washed it five times before it was nearly clean.
A year later, I saw one of the rowdier guys, Keith, at a bar, and like the fool I always was, I bought him a drink. In my mind I think I was telling him that I didn’t have any hard feelings, but now that I reflect, all I was really doing was telling him that I didn’t mind being treated like dirt. Some things never change, I guess. ¶ 1:57 PM
I had one of those big water coolers filled with rum and Coke. I had a couple flats of beer. I had coolers, chips, loud music, and – what I thought was the best part – a solid number of guests coming over. My parents were out of town that weekend and had no idea that I was going to trash their house, but in all fairness, I didn’t know that second part either.
By the end of the night, the party was well out of control. There were friends of friends that had shown up, a lot that I didn’t know very well, and they were, to say the least, taking advantage of my good nature. The flats of beer disappeared, as I expected them to, but there were no empty cans anywhere. The cooler of rum and Coke was ruined with ashes and what I suspected was pubic hair. The bowls of chips were dumped on the floor, drinks were intentionally spilled, the banister going downstairs was ripped off, there was a hole punched through a wall, and there was glass broken on the kitchen floor. Even one of my mother’s antique bowls was placed out on the road filled with some clever joker’s urine.
As soon as I started catching on to what was going on in my house – because I wasn’t being as diligent as I should have been – I kicked everyone out. (It was actually the second time that I kicked them all out because the first time I was talked out of it by one of my friends, who incorrectly advised me that nothing worse was going to happen.)
I scrubbed that floor until the earliest hours of the morning, then took a nap before scrubbing some more. I washed it five times before it was nearly clean.
A year later, I saw one of the rowdier guys, Keith, at a bar, and like the fool I always was, I bought him a drink. In my mind I think I was telling him that I didn’t have any hard feelings, but now that I reflect, all I was really doing was telling him that I didn’t mind being treated like dirt. Some things never change, I guess. ¶ 1:57 PM
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Static
She walked past me last night, a woman that I hadn’t seen since she was a girl. Back when she wanted me, she hadn’t yet had her surgery, and I’m sure this was why she was overcompensating. Why she dressed how she did, why she flirted so heavily. Now, years later, she seems like a completely different person, and I haven’t aged at all.
¶ 8:54 PM
