Waving Not Drowning

It's an incredibly short ferry ride. Thirty seconds. The time spent lining up, boarding, offloading and making their way to and from the gate adds another forty minutes. Everyone around Jane looks familiar. The 30-something couple with the man who makes direct eye contact with Jane while his girlfriend, maybe wife, cracks open a Tupperware container of homemade yogurty muesli and frantically stirs, folds and caresses the muck with an enviro friendly portable bamboo spoon. She's sure she knows them from somewhere. High school? The gym? Did they date? Did she date the woman? Oh, college. The two women in line directly in front of Jane have spread out across the aisle in the middle of the boat, blocking a heavy set young Italian woman from making her way to the exterior deck of the ferry. She has to sandwich her way between two pillars of immoveable flesh in tweed and cotton. They're either angry old lesbians or nuns. Jane can't decide. Matching high waisted khakis with br...

The pong of Wednesday morning. The noxious, malodorous, stench of compost bins strewn half emptied across sidewalks, blown by gusts of wind into bike lanes, across driveways, randomly dancing into traffic. Blue and yellow garbage trucks piggy back one on top of the other a block apart refreshing the ripe atmosphere every few metres. Should have picked a different route. Something about wanting to stay alive, keep to the the bike route, south to Dundas, west to River, south to King. Wednesday mornings are quickly losing their appeal to her increasingly nauseated self. They must have changed the schedule or moved the parameters of the neighbourhood pick up. It used to be that the early mid week morning ride to work was her own private universe. No one on the roads, lanes clear, lights green the whole way through. Quiet, still, slumbrous. No buses or carpools, no screaming, anxious, angry children reluctantly offloading in front of the school. It's all in the timing. Fifteen minutes o...

Something about the timbre of her voice gives Pete a rash. That itching he gets at the back of his throat at the beginning of an allergic reaction, this is how he feels whenever she comes on the radio. Mary's voice is the aural equivalent of tree nuts and strawberries for Pete. Not a good thing considering the public radio station he listens to religiously has moved Mary over to the morning show from 5:30 to 8:30 am. The one upside is that she only does the traffic report; it's timed to ten minutes past the thirty and the hour so Pete can physically remove himself from the sound if he's in a room or if he's fast enough, mute it entirely. Still, he is plowing through his Benadryl which is making him rather sloppy at work. Coworkers wonder if he's developed a sleeping disorder. Maybe he's high from the night before- with Pete, no one can really tell; and as no one can see his hive-covered esophagus, Pete's not entirely convincing to his coworkers. He's tho...

Here's your picture, and he thrust his ancient flip phone with a built in camera  right into Dave's face as he rose out of his seat and headed to the subway door. Dave took notice of the guy peripherally a few stops previous but chose to ignore his tingly spidey sense in the moment. The guy's eyes seemed to be pointing in different directions which confused Dave; he was unable to discern whether or not he was actually the one being photographed or if the phone guy was shooting the 20 year old blonde in the seat ahead of him. Either way, Dave was now hyper aware of the constant electronic shutter snap coming from the odd man in the green parka with the orange tennis shoes sitting across the aisle. Dave tried to subvert his gaze and then felt utterly ridiculous holding up a gloved hand to partially obscure his face, like he was some celebrity feigning irritation with the papparazzo. Although he had to admit, the guy was really beginning to creep him out. The blonde must have ...

Aw man, crap, no. Nononononono....big exhale, that's right, just breathe out....Adam was having a minor coronory. He hadn't seen Jane in years. Wait, what was she doing back in town? That couldn't have been her, no. Holy guacomole it's a tofu inferno. Woah. Adam realized he had come to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk at 5 pm, a downstream barricade in the midst of the upflow of mad commuter traffic heading frantically towards the suburban trains. A domino effect of bouncing businessmen, briefcases flailing, suit jackets creasing, stacked up behind him. Sorry, sorrysorrysorry. Damn. Adam stepped flush to the tower wall, a pink hued shade of granite, still emanating heat from basking in the midday sun. He searched down the stream of bobbing heads and shoulders shuffling, trying to remember what Jane was wearing, if it really was Jane. That gait, the set of her shoulders, the way she created a bubble around her, even in a crush of bodies. She claimed space. Eight...

It's unlike anything David's ever heard, this incessant squawking, like a frantic parrot on acid with wings on fire. She will not shut up- nattering on and on and on and on. What language is that, anyway? Some kind of chinese or maybe filipino. It could be german with a twist for all he knows. Whatever it is, he doesn't get it it but he's thinking that if she doesn't shut up by the time he gets off the bus he'll be fluent, whether he likes it or not. What the hell is she even talking about? David can't figure out if she's pissed off or being polite. Not a great language selling point, if you ask him. Pretty confounding to feel like someone's tearing you a new one when they're actually professing their love. She's still talking. Wow. What is that, circular breathing? Maybe she plays the didjeridoo. A chinese didj player. On a downtown Toronto bus. Makes sense. Or hey, she could be  a free diver- they have great lung capacity, right? At this po...

They enter through the door together. She makes her way into the crowded car. Only then does she look over her shoulder to realize he has planted himself near the first pole. A flash of betrayal obscures her face. He is immovable. Feigning intention she backtracks to him, grasps the hanging strap above her head and roots herself. Compliant only on her terms. He reeks of defiance. In no way will he accommodate her. This is where he stands, immutable, unyielding. As always, it is up to her to bend and sway, fill the spaces between, round off his sharp edges, modify at a moment's notice. She is liquid, he is stone. She flows and surrounds, seeps into every pore and crevice, enveloping his implacable self with her tidal substance. Ebb and flow, seeking balance, equilibrium. The struggle is monumental yet she can not give way. The months turn to years. He is resolute in his choices, convicted. This battle will rage on for days to come, there is no means of extrication short of abandonme...

He knows, oh, he knows. He knows EXACTLY what he's doing. You. Sir. SIR! You with the Donlands transfer, yes YOU sir, don't pretend you can't hear me, I KNOW you hear me. You CAN NOT USE that transfer to get into the station; you HAVE TO GET OFF here- this is the LAST STOP for you, sir. The entire bus resonated with her bullhorn hawkishness. Middle aged, overflowing in her seat, with processed yellow hair and thick black lines drawn across her lids, she commandeered the 56 like she was driving the Secret Service's motorcade. This is what Kit's mom calls a harpy. Mean, crotchety, and righteously indignant. It was obvious to the rest of the riders that this older East Indian man who was apparently subverting the system by riding illegally with the wrong paper transfer was ignorant of his actions. He barely spoke English. She Ra of the Bus Co. ceaselessly berated and threatened this man in full voice at 1:30 on a Wednesday afternoon while driving through East York. An ...

Fifty five minutes for a 5 minute errand. He just would not shut up. Heather was leaning out the door, bracing it open with her foot, about as subtle as a truck, trying to leave the store. He would not stop talking- about himself, his career, his pure potential. Heather's mentally calculating how late she's running for her 1 oclock appointment, trying to manifest a way to transmogrify herself via an imaginary telelporter to get to Chelsea in time.  Just Shut Up. An hour ago she was mildly smitten. He was a doppleganger of her ex, same ginger hair, dimpled chin, light blue eyes, perfect bow shaped lips, rare on a man. After twenty minutes of monologue all resemblance evaporated. His hands were small, nail beds torn and ragged, his neck showed premature signs of aging and a distinct lack of physical activity in his life. What was she expecting from a computer IT guy, not like he rips himself away from his motherboard to bust out a quick ten miler or 5 hour ride. All she needed wa...

The woman has a baby strapped to her chest. It's one of those front pack sacks that you stick a kid in and it faces the world with all four limbs jutting out in every direction. Ferg lets out an audible involuntary grunt. He just doesn't get it. You'd think after carrying the thing in her stomach for ten months she'd want the relief of a stroller or something but no, she's strapped this poor kid across her chest like a bomb, a human shield that drools and spits. Different take on a camel. Crazy breeders. Why do people even have kids anymore, aren't they aware of the massive over population problems in the world? There's 7 billion on one planet, it's a bit much, by anyone's standards. Granted it's not like Ferg is going to be breeding anytime soon. Last girlfriend he had was in junior high school, Alicia Loring. Not like they ever really went out or had an actual date, more like Mark set him up with his girl's best friend and they became an it...

It was quite busy, close to rush hour but not yet the height of insanity. The line up was growing behind him, cascading between two self serve kiosks, spreading out amongst the throngs of commuters ebbing and flowing up and down the escalators. He had his wallet in hand, his worn leather briefcase slung over his shoulder. His beige trench was well loved and of another era, but perfectly suited to his old world, professorial character. He ambled up to the kiosk, slowly, with purpose. The screen was placed at an odd height- he's a tall man, but not overly so at 6'2", a little stooped in his third age, but he wondered if the screens were designed for children or a much smaller society. It brought to mind Pygmies in the rainforest for some reason. Random. It was a touch screen, brand new technology to him but he surprised himself by adapting to it with relative ease. He pulled his debit card from his billfold, inserted it into the machine and leaned in, stoop shouldered and no...

He overshot the stop. Not by much but enough that she had to manipulate her overburdened stroller across a bank of solid ice and weave through two parked cars to get to the front door. Can you help me? she asked the driver. No,  he replied. She snapped her head back subtly, involuntarily, the way one does when passing a tethered dog that unexpectedly lurches for your leg. Unbelievable,  she mutters under her breath, eyes wide, head slowly shaking, side to side. She can't be 19; flawless, latte coloured skin, long kinky hair tied high in a pony tail, red manicured nails with a single white one on her right ring finger, as if to say this one, this is the one. That moment of decision, to attempt to board the streetcar unaided, grappling awkwardly, or turn back around and wait for the next one, passes across her face. Her shoulders rise, defiant, pulling her scarf up over her chin, masking her lower lip. He turns his gaze away, and closes the front doors.