Waving Not Drowning

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...

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...

Two weeks til the bandages come off. She's been here before. This is the hard part, the next few hours, in and out of consciousness. Floating above the recovery room in an Atavan induced haze. At least this time it's just a nerve block or four. The spinal last time was a disaster, completely numb from the waist down, disembodied, powerless. Then the side effects- the spinal headache and projectile vomiting, mainlining straight morphine and oxy for 2 days until she thought she'd throw up the lining of her stomach.This is the last time. That's what the surgeon said. Mind you, he said that about the last three surgeries. Apparently her superpower is regrowing any and all bone removed from her body, at a ridiculously rapid pace. It could be worse, it could be terminal in some way. They could have to lop off a limb or find some inoperable tumour. After eight years of xrays and follow up she's waiting to see what side effects come her way. The irony. Oh joy. Then the atro...

It's not exactly a trot but it's definitely an affected gait. He steps purposefully with his toe down first, like a young colt or Great Dane Puppy. His rhythm is erratic, as if he's marking time to an off kilter metronome. A slight shift to the left with his head and his arms raise to hip level. A hop skip step to his right and a two-bob head shake. Then he pulls his chin to the sky, jerking twice then flicks back down, pulling on imaginary reins and resets his positioning. He carries a plastic shopping bag filled with dollar store purchases on his way to who knows where. Yet he walks with purpose; there is hesitation and peculiarity to his movement but no aimless wandering. A palsy or perhaps just different motor neuron pathways firing. A super secret connection of pulses and synapses speaking a foreign language. Beautifully complex and terrifically inefficient. There is nothing to do but give way and regard.

Oliver spends fourteen minutes of every lunch hour walking to and from the dollar store. He has it timed within a ten second measure, depending on traffic lights and unforeseen obstructions, such as wayward contruction cones and temporary fencing.  Sometimes Angie the crossing guard tries to engage him in meaningless conversation which irritates Oliver to no end. Please do not talk to me, I have a very strict timeline and cannot be distracted, thank you. This is Oliver's well worn mantra. At least twice a week, generally Tuesdays and Thursdays unless it is raining, Angie tries to engage him on his walk. Oliver is easily annoyed. He knows this because his parents remind him of it repeatedly, every morning over his breakfast of cheerios with a sliced banana, 6 raw almonds and 1% milk in the yellow bowl with a blue rim. If the banana is too ripe or not ripe enough, if there are 5 almonds or 7, Oliver becomes inconsolable. Nothing short of a full court press from both parents can calm ...

Five more steps then a right turn, hop ten more steps then a slight dip. Damn. Shoddy work, this bit here- the threshold's uneven between the kitchen and living room, a downright trip hazard, Gord thinks. That's what you get for cheap rent. Stupid landlord thinks makeshift is satisfactory. If you're going to do something.....Eight weeks in a full leg cast and he's mapped out the entirety of his 500 square foot apartment down the inch. How many steps to the kitchen, how many degrees torque required to open the fridge door while balancing on one leg as he tries to finangle open the crisper without taking a header into the freezer. His own private choreography, a bad two-minute bit from some lame busker who could never master juggling more than 3 balls. Fuck! Damn, piss, shit, crap...the jar of tomato sauce slips from his grip and explodes on the tile, sending red sauce up the front of his cast, inside the fridge shelves and all the way across the backsplash. Perfect. Thi...

His smell. Undeniably of him. Like no one else she'd ever smelled before, like her nose was hardwired into her pulse. Every time she smelled him, she felt as if her head would explode from blood pressure rising. The middle of the night wake-ups, the 3 am silent dark moments. She'd awaken from deep slumber smelling him. He's 5000 kilometers away and permeates every cell of her body. How does that happen? There's an upside to having a large linen collection. Fifteen sets of pillowcases and it's as if he's in every one. She can't remember the last time he laid his head on her pillow, if ever, now that she thinks about it. Yet she'll walk down the street, do a triple shoulder check because she swears he's in the air, all around her. In the midst of the heavyset autumn eve, he lingers in her body. Something happens when the sun comes out and the trees erupt their blossoms. His scent disappears. Only for a few days but it's as if the possibility of new...